Crysis: Fusion
by Dark Cryo
Summary: "Waking up in an abandoned research facility with no memory of how I got there? Spooky. Learning I'm being hunted by murderous androids with some type of sinister plan for me? Nerve-wracking. Finding out the ghost of the man who stole my body is still in my head...? Terrifying." -Alcatraz
1. Maximum Nudity

**Disclaimer****: I own nothin'.**

**Author's Notes****: Here's a fun little side project I'm sure none of you were expecting, eh? I've had writer's block with ****_Semper Invicta_**** lately, and in all honesty, I need to start experimenting with breaking away from canon source material and making my own waves. Unfortunately, the roadmap for that story doesn't leave a lot of room to improvise (for now, anyway), so I figured… why not start something new? Something I can just mess around and have fun with; that I won't take as seriously as my other story?**

**One impulsive download from the Xbox store and a drunken party with my co-workers later, I found the perfect two games to help inspire me. They fit so well together, it's like they were ****_meant _****to be married!**

**On a side note, most of the story (read as: about 80%) will be told from Alcatraz/Prophet's first-person perspective. A bit different from what I usually do, but like I said, I want to experiment.**

**Also, I'm not going to be following ****_Crysis: Legion_****'s lore by the letter. A few things I didn't like about the book (such as Alcatraz's heart not being repaired… the defibrillator was a cool idea in-game) will be retconned, as well as a few other minor mistakes throughout the series' overarching plot.**

* * *

_"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."_

-Norman Cousins

* * *

**[Date: 02/09/2062, 06:33 hrs.]**

**[Location: UNKNOWN]**

**[Subject: Sgt. James "Alcatraz" Rodriguez, U.S. Marine Corps, Force Recon (1231239E/1230A AC)]**

_Initialization complete. Systems online._

_Warning: Power fluctuations detected. Initiating power reroute subroutine._

_…_

_Subroutine complete. Stand by for internal diagnostic scan._

_…_

_Diagnostic complete._

_Warning: Unauthorized modification to hippocampus detected. Critical assimilation failure. Stand by for re-assimilation._

_…_

_…_

_…_

_Error: Failure to re-assimilate. Status: 14% complete. Beginning immediate reb/#14G69KCT&TR1N-_

_Overwrite accepted. Stand by for external diagnostic scan._

_… _

_Diagnostic complete._

_Warning: External temperature reading at -50_°_C. Recommend immediate relocation._

_Warning: External temperature reading at -38_°_C. Recommend immediate relocation._

_Warning: External temperature reading at -25_°_C. Recommend immediate relocation._

_Warning: External temperature read/$CC-_

_That damn AI gets on my nerves sometimes. Heh heh… I guess God gave you a third chance to live, huh, marine?_

_Now go out there and make it count._

* * *

**(Unknown Location)**

Looking back, my awakening was nowhere near as glorious as it would've been if I were in a movie or video game, even though my life has a recent tendency to mingle a bit too close to what most would call fictional territory. Someone out there probably thinks I dramatically emerged from the cloud of mist surrounding the cryo-pod I'd been entombed in standing tall and proud, awake and alert, donned in the ultra-high-tech CryNet Nanosuit 2 and ready to kick ass at a moment's notice.

That couldn't have been farther from the truth.

I don't remember much about the first few seconds. I only recall the sound of mechanical restraints groaning in protest as they shift aside, the hissing rush of cold air escaping through the cracks as the opaque door slowly creaks open, and the wet _splat_ of my body hitting the ground with all the grace of a dead fish.

"Argh, fucking _balls_…!"

My first words in this new era, forced out through chattering teeth and lungs starved of oxygen, also could've been a bit more… mature.

I instinctively curl into a fetal position, wrapping my arms around my legs, shivering on the cold metal floor. I don't know how much time passes as I desperately try to warm myself up, but it's long enough for my sleep-addled brain to eventually realize that something is very, very wrong. Something that causes my labored breaths to suddenly freeze.

I'm as naked as the day I was born. Ordinarily this wouldn't be too unusual – not by your typical sci-fi standards, anyway – except for one crucial detail: the Nanosuit is missing.

Back in New York during the height of the Ceph invasion, I'd been reduced to a pile of shredded meat and broken bones after what should've been a fairly simple extraction mission went horribly sideways, courtesy of our not-so-friendly neighbors from outer space. It was only thanks to the timely arrival of Prophet, along with his 'gift' of the Nanosuit 2, that I was able to survive.

_Prophet_. My freezing lips subconsciously contort into a snarl. The man who bestowed upon me a blessing and a curse in the form of that wretched suit. The man who passed the torch over to me, a simple grunt in the Marine Corps, with a proclamation that destiny was a bitch and how the fate of the city now rested on me.

The man who apparently decided that I hadn't done a good enough job, and forcibly hijacked my own goddamn body from me!

…No, I tell myself, taking several deep breaths. That's not true. Not entirely. Neither of us could've predicted how the alien armor would've fucked with our heads.

I somehow have control again, though, and that's all that matters now. Prophet can go fuck himself until the neurons in my head return from vacation.

Dammit, I'm getting sidetracked.

The Nanosuit catapulted me from your average cannon fodder to a one-man army. It gave me the strength to kick taxi cabs across half a city block. It was durable enough to shrug off a direct hit from an anti-tank round. It allowed me to track enemy movements and weapon emplacements, and even let me slip in and out of the most heavily fortified checkpoints with its built-in cloaking module – and those were just the more immediate features.

The suit gave me everything I needed to stop the invasion. And against all odds, against the overwhelming technological superiority of the Ceph and the zealous drive for vengeance fueling CELL's Commander Lockhart, I succeeded.

Of course, as the Laws of Bullshit dictate, power on that scale doesn't come without penalty.

During my brief time in possession of the N2, I was crushed when I learned from a hostage CELL technician that I was clinically dead after the horrific wounds I'd sustained in Battery Park's harbor. And as if that wasn't terrifying enough, the suit was literally _seeping _into my flesh, breaking down less vital organs to mend the needed ones. As a consequence, if it were ever to be removed or powered down, I'd kick the bucket in about thirty seconds tops.

I was it and it was me. We are legion.

_Were _legion. It's gone now, somehow, as are my injuries. I can breathe without the terrible feeling of blood spilling into my tattered lungs. I can move my legs again. I can _talk_. Haven't done _that_ in a while – almost forgot what my voice sounds like without an electronic filter turning my words into cyborg speak. The suit is gone, but I'm miraculously still alive.

I know I should feel happy. Instead, all I feel is… numb. This isn't happening. This can't be right. I _died _in that suit; I'm a thousand percent sure I did. Death isn't something you just wake up and walk away from.

…Is it?

Still huddled on the ground, my eyes flicker back to the open cryo-pod. I don't see surgical instruments anywhere near it, so how was I healed? Come to think of it, since when did cryotechnology come this far? I don't think I've ever seen a-

"_AAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHH!_"

Pain explodes in my skull out of nowhere. I shut my eyes as tightly as I can and clench my teeth, moving both hands to cradle my head, but it's not helping jack shit.

Brief images lasting a fraction of a second each flash through the overwhelming agony assaulting my mind. I see… a cold place. My hands are pressed into snow, still protected by the Nanosuit. I'm staring down the barrel of a Jackal combat shotgun, held by an African-American woman staring _me _down with a look of twisted hatred, her index finger itching towards the trigger-

The pain subsides as quickly as it comes.

Panting for breath, I open my eyes and roll over onto my back, staring up at the grimy ceiling overhead. The lights are dim, occasionally flickering. Thankfully they aren't intrusive enough to be a burden on my aching senses.

I haven't felt that kind of torture since Hargreave tried to skin me alive.

"What the _fuck _was that…?" I mumble into the gloom.

That strange flashback… that's a memory, I gather, although it definitely doesn't belong to me. Prophet's, maybe? What, did he decide to piss off everyone he met (again) while he was running around in my corpse? Just what the fuck is going on here?

_Pull yourself together, Sergeant, _I tell myself shortly. _You've got more pressing issues right now. Like finding out where the hell you are and how you got here._

Shoving all thoughts of the late Army Ranger aside, I roll over again and barely make it to my knees when the sound of crackling static catches my attention. I whip my head around, searching for the source of the noise, until my focus settles on a large, dusty computer screen mounted on the opposite wall of my icy prison.

I blink when a grainy face materializes into existence. It looks like a young girl, ranging anywhere from her mid-teens to early twenties, with curly black hair tied into twin ponytails. Innocent as she first appears, the rebreather concealing the lower half of her face is my first clue that something is off about this chick.

The way her cold, dead eyes fixate themselves on me is the second.

_"You're awake." _She notes, sounding about as enthusiastic as a person would be if they won a penny from a scratch-off ticket. _"I guess restoring the main power grid triggered a failsafe somewhere. Hmph… inconvenient, but not a problem."_

My first reaction is to angle my body in a position where she can't see my schlong. If she noticed what I was doing, she doesn't comment on it.

"Who… Who are you…?" I ask her, confused and cautious in equal parts.

Evidently that was a mistake. The girl's eyes narrow into slits, regarding me with a look of utter contempt.

_"Don't ask questions of me, filth!" _she hisses through her mask. _"You were supposed to remain asleep while we came to retrieve you! Ugh, you humans can never do anything right."_

I have _so many questions _about those last two sentences.

Who the fuck is this chick? Where does she want to take me, and for what purpose? Why am I supposed to stay asleep? How _did _I end up in that pod, anyway? Even more ominous, what does she mean by "we" and "you humans"?

Concluding that it's probably Prophet's fault for at least one of those questions, I narrow my eyes back at the girl and say the first thing that comes to mind. "Yeah, well, fuck you too, you narcissistic bitch."

Briefly relishing the surprised expression overtaking her features, I continue, "You have no idea who you're dealing with right now. Trust me. If you want me to cooperate, then you'll treat me like a goddamn human being, got it? Otherwise, point me towards the exit."

My bold response elicits a raised eyebrow.

I pray like crazy that she won't see through my bluff.

She must know something important about me; it has to be my connection to the Nanosuit, because why else would she come for me? Actually… why come searching for me at all? I don't have the suit anymore, as she should clearly see. I'm just an ordinary average Joe human again. So why the interest?

I'm gambling that if I at least pretend to act more dangerous than I really am, she'll take me a little more seriously and maybe not brush my inquiries aside.

Eventually, after a minute of thoughtful silence, she speaks.

_"I _am _treating you like a human being," _the girl scoffs. She leans closer to the screen, boring into me with those soulless eyes. _"Listen to me very carefully, filth. You will wait where you are until my comrades arrive to restrain you. I've already relayed your location to them, so they should be there any minute. You will go back in your pod, and you won't wake up again unless we deem it fit. Whether or not by choice, you WILL cooperate. Do I make myself clear?"_

My fists clenching at my sides, I scathingly grind out, "Yeah. Understood."

_"Good." _She leans away from the screen, and I have a feeling she's smirking victoriously beneath her facemask. Bitch. _"My creators went through a lot of trouble hiding you away, you know. Master will be most pleased when I bring you back to headquarters." _The girl pauses, seemingly pondering over her next statement, before deciding it's indeed worth mentioning. _"And just for the record… I know _exactly _who I'm dealing with. If it were up to me, I would've had you vaporized on the spot, but… well, Master is adamant about your importance to the plan. See you soon…"_

She cuts the feed, leaving me isolated once more.

Not for long, I grimly realize. If what she's claiming is true, some likely unscrupulous company is headed my way, and if I don't want to end up back in the freezer, I need to find a way out of here, pronto.

Wherever _here _is.

I finally take the time to study my surroundings. I'm in an average sized room, for starters. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all made of solid metal and caked with a thin layer of grime, leading me to deduce that no one's been in this room for a very long time. There are a few large shelves and pieces of lab equipment propped against the walls, all of them coated with dust. Nothing is overturned or out of place, so I don't have to worry about stepping on needles or broken glass or whatever else, but that's a small luxury at best.

There's a transparent sliding door with a numbered keypad directly left of the cryo-pod, so I decide to start there.

Entering random numbers yields no results besides angry beeping. I check the space around the keypad, hoping someone might've written the combination on a scrap of paper and hidden it somewhere, but my search proves just as fruitless.

Punching the door doesn't work, either. The hexagonal pattern that spreads from my fist's point of impact informs me it's made from solid nanoglass.

_Fucking Hargreave,_ I think with a sharp scowl. Even in death, the old man seems to have made it his personal mission to subtly fuck with me. I'd have better luck trying to tunnel out of here with a plastic spoon than force my way through the door.

Hang on a moment…

I turn to inquisitively eye the shelves. It's definitely a longshot, but I don't have any other ideas, and my gut's telling me that time is quickly running out.

I'm halfway over to the largest shelf when I spot the metallic glint of an object resting on it. When I'm close enough to see what it is, the soldier in me can't resist smiling like an idiot.

An M12 Nova light handgun, complete with a full magazine. If I have to take a guess, it was probably put there in case I woke up and didn't want to go back to sleep, or didn't react well to whatever evil experiments were no doubt performed on me. Although it wouldn't help me escape the room, the feeling of the Nova's polymer grip as I take it into my hand brings a calming sense of safety I haven't felt since awakening.

I smile wistfully as I examine the pistol, turning it this way and that, inspecting it for any wear. This is the same model weapon I used after first acquiring the Nanosuit and venturing out into the infested alien cesspool that was New York City.

The same weapon Prophet used to off himself…

_Stop. You can't let yourself get distracted, Alcatraz, _my brain scolds me.

Right, back to business. Gently setting the pistol down on top of an adjacent lab device, I wrap the shelf in a bear hug and take a deep breath, preparing to heave it off the floor with all my strength.

It comes up way too easily. I stagger backwards a couple of steps, barely managing to avoid falling over and pinning myself under the heavy object. I consider myself lucky for not tripping over my feet.

Have I always been this strong, even without the Nanosuit? I chalk it up to either adrenaline or more crazy experiments. Who the fuck knew what happened to me during… _however _long it was I was unconscious?

A loud _clang _echoes through the room as I drop the shelf down a few feet away. Sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed: an air duct is conveniently hidden behind the shelf. Better still, the grate is stuck in a way that I can easily pull it free.

I silently thank all the puzzle-centric survival horror video games I played in my youth.

Another thought occurs to me while I go to retrieve the Nova; what if that crazy chick shows up on the monitor again? What would she do when she saw I wasn't there anymore?

Fortunately, the answer is simple this time, and it involves throwing a piece of random machinery that resembles a super-advanced lava lamp through the screen. Check in on me now, bitch.

The shelf I'd moved comes in handy, too, blocking my makeshift escape route from the glass and sparks spraying down from the destroyed computer. Totally meant for that to happen. Wasting no more time, I swiftly move back to the air duct, pry the grate open, then crawl on my stomach into the open space, leaving the bleak room I'd been trapped in behind.

* * *

**(Sometime Later)**

I have no clue where I'm going and I really don't give a shit. All that matters now is getting as far away as possible from the room where that strange girl is expecting me to be waiting obediently.

Yeah, right. I snort in disbelief, kicking up a small cloud of dust coating the inside of the vent. As if I, a Force Recon Marine who almost single-handedly prevented a horde of pissed off aliens from killing the human race with a genetically engineered super-virus, would listen to a girl who looks like the spawn of Darth Vader and an anime character.

Okay, I'll admit I would've listened if it _was _a Sith Lord who ordered me to wait. I like _Star Wars_ – sue me.

My point remains, however. And as I keep up my slow pace through the air duct, I can't stop my thoughts from wandering back to the girl on the screen.

Almost nothing she said made sense to me, and the few things that did give the impression that she's a servant to some higher authority who's taken a vested interest in me. And while I don't know what her so-called "Master's" sinister plan is, her flippant attitude and total lack of human decency (or in simpler terms, "evil bitchiness") is enough evidence for me to surmise that I really don't want to find out.

I somehow doubt it'll be anything pleasant.

After several more minutes of navigating through various twists and turns, moving as quietly as possible so I won't alert any potential hostiles, an exit appears in the form of another grate. I carefully crawl over and manage to knock it loose without much resistance.

I emerge into a restroom lined with stalls. Rising to my feet, I lift my arms over my head and give my body a good stretch, sighing in bliss when I hear a plethora of satisfying cracks. Damn vent was more cramped than it looked.

Once I'm limbered up, I take a glance around the bathroom, searching for anything that might be useful. There isn't, and a quick check of the stalls doesn't yield anything, either. Pretty much what I'd expected.

Might as well clean myself up, then. I walk over to one of the sinks, turn the knob… and grimace when some type of thick brown sludge gurgles out of the faucet.

I sigh. Right, this place seems to have been abandoned for quite a while. It's highly unlikely that the plumbing would've held up without proper maintenance. Stupid, stupid Alcatraz…

Slightly bummed that my short streak of good luck came to an end, I turn the faucet off and instead gaze at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.

Growing up in a dysfunctional family, I never had time to put much stock into my appearance – a fact that transitioned into my adult life, I note as I take in my facial features. Short brown hair that rarely sees a comb. Lightly tanned skin; a combination of four years spent toiling under the sun in the Marines and my own one-quarter Hispanic heritage. A standard five o'clock shadow. Bright blue eyes that almost seem to glow in the dim light. All in all, I look exactly the same as I did back when my squad and I boarded the-

Wait a minute… Something isn't right.

My eyes have always been green…

I lean closer to the mirror, blinking several times to confirm what I'm seeing. Sure enough, my eyes somehow switched from a murky green color to an energetic shade of blue. They almost look… _artificial_. What the fuck…? How did this happen? What caused this, and for what reason?

There's another tally mark on the growing list of things wrong with me…

I study my reflection for another minute, turning my head in different directions, never breaking my gaze away from those unnatural blue orbs. At one point, I pause to rub my eyes before looking back into the mirror.

The face staring back at me isn't my own.

"HOLY _FUCK!_" I stumble backwards like I'd just been shoved by a 'roided-up bodybuilder. I barely catch myself against a stall, holding one hand over my heart which is threatening to burst out of my chest, before sliding down to sit on the tiled floor. I'm vaguely aware of my pistol clattering to the ground next to me.

I'm shaking so badly I can hear my teeth chattering again. No way… there is absolutely _no way _I just saw what I did. It's fucking impossible. Just not possible…!

When my hands stop shaking enough for me to regain control, I bury my face into them – or at least, I _hope _it's my face, and not the one belonging to the ghost in the mirror.

"What the fuck is going on?" I moan despairingly.

This is all too much for me. First I wake up naked in some kind of abandoned facility, then I immediately find out I'm being hunted by an unknown faction for God knows what reason, and now _this_…? How do I react? What the hell am I supposed to do?

_Keep going, _the rational side of my mind – the subconscious voice I always listen to for advice when times are tough – informs me. _Keep moving forward, because there's nothing else you CAN do. _

I exhale a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. As much as Marine Corps training was a slog through hell, it taught me a lot of valuable lessons, including how to keep your mind focused during stressful encounters. And I'm not just any run-of-the-mill marine. I'm Force Recon, dammit – I can't afford to let myself get spooked by supernatural mumbo-jumbo like this. Not when I have a mission to complete.

It could also just be my imagination playing games with me, I also figure after a moment. Maybe I'm stressed or was given some type of medication that tricked my brain into seeing things that aren't real.

Nodding slowly to myself, I take a few more calming breaths, then grab my sidearm and get to my feet on slightly unsteady legs. I risk looking back at the mirror, letting out a small sigh of relief when I see my own haggard image in the glass.

I exit the restroom without any further incident, emerging at the end of a long, empty hallway. The only way forward is to my right, so that's where I go. Maybe now I can start finding answers about where I am and how I can get out of here.

Anything to distract me from the mental image of Prophet's face staring unnervingly into my own, sharing those same blue eyes.

* * *

I keep the Nova pointed in front of me at all times as I wander deeper into the facility. My movements are careful and deliberate; I haven't forgotten how the black-haired girl on the monitor said she had others coming to fetch me. I also make a conscious effort to keep my footsteps quiet so I won't tip off the welcoming party in case they're close by.

One advantage of being naked? No ruffling of clothing and accessories to give you away when you're trying to be stealthy.

Still, some pants wouldn't have hurt. My pistol only came with one loaded magazine. How am I going to carry more around if I find any?

I make a mental note to grab some clothes if possible before reaching the exit. Unfortunately, my sweep of the rooms lining either side of the hallway turns up nothing except empty cubicles and more defunct lab equipment. I do find a few tablet-like devices here and there – _datapads_, a voice in the back of my head whispers – though their batteries are long dead, as I find out when I try to access them.

Come to think of it, there's a lot of valuable stuff laying around here, I muse as I slide the door to another room open (thankfully, none of the rooms bar the one I woke up in have nanoglass or security panels). Whoever worked here must've left in a hurry before they could pack everything up.

I wonder if the girl from earlier had a clue as to what went on here… hmm. I don't think she would've told me even if I'd asked nicely.

Nothing but more junk with no discernible identifiers to its owners in here. I sigh again as I leave, partly out of frustration, but mostly because I'm on edge. Every attempt at picking through my disjointed memories to try and figure out how I'd gotten here rewarded me with nothing but hazes of color and a throbbing headache. It's like someone had taken all of my recent memories, crammed them into an industrial-strength blender, threw in some morphine because why the hell not, then set the blend speed to motherfucking wumbo.

To rub even more salt into the wound, there are barely any maps or signs around to help me navigate, and the few I _do_ find aren't helpful at all. Just basic safety warnings about handling dangerous lab equipment and shit like that. To make matters worse, the signs are all printed in what I'm appalled to see is _five _different languages – English, Russian, Chinese, German, and Spanish, in descending order. If they'd all been written in one language, it could've at least helped me narrow down where I might be geographically.

The only silver lining to this mess is that it doesn't look like CELL's handiwork. If they want me dead, then why am I not already? If they wanted the Nanosuit, then why bother putting me on ice after it was removed? So I could become their fucking guinea pig? Admittedly that's a very sound theory, but my doubts still linger.

Besides, if this was indeed a CryNet facility, then I'm absolutely certain I would've seen their logo plastered on every object in sight. It's like their leaders are afraid that the bumbling little minions they fielded would forget whom they worked for if they don't do so otherwise.

I shiver. This place is cold, both figuratively and literally. Uninviting. Alien. Endless.

As much of a nightmare as it was to deal with at times, I find myself wishing for the Nanosuit's protection.

There's no Heads-Up Display – or Brain-Up Display, as I prefer to call it – on my visual cortex telling me where to go and how much ammo I have left. No armor to bulldoze through hostiles or cloak to sneak past them. _Nothing_. Strange bodily quirks aside, I have no way to defend myself other than a low-caliber pistol with twenty rounds.

I hazard that the suit isn't in this facility anymore. If it is, then the weird chick's Sith Master either must have it secured already, or somehow deluded herself into thinking I'm the higher-value target.

At one point I trip over nothing and smack into the floor, sending a loud echo down the empty hallway. Cursing under my breath, I swiftly get back up and wait, straining my ears for any sign of approaching footsteps. None come forth. The facility remains as quiet as the grave.

Deciding not to take any chances just in case, I dart into the closest room and shut the door behind me.

My breath hitches when I turned around and see what's inside with me.

There's a woman's corpse laying on an operating table, illuminated by a bright lamp shining directly onto it. The fact that there's a lit computer screen somewhere behind it doesn't register at first; I'm too busy staring at the body with my jaw hanging open.

I've said it plenty of times before, and I'll keep saying it as long as it stays relevant: _What the actual fuck._

The woman's appearance is even more bizarre than Sith Bitch's, and that's definitely saying something. While the rude girl looked like she came from the _Star Wars _universe_,_ this chick would've been right at home in _Tron_.

She's got mid-length violet hair with the left fringe dyed a lighter shade of purple, and her closed eyes are partially hidden behind a visor. Her outfit is little more than a purple swimsuit that looks like it's one stiff breeze away from a fashion faux pas. I notice a pair of bullet holes right above her shapely chest; obviously the cause of death. Strangest of all, and what really catches my attention, is that both her forearms and most of her legs appear to be substituted with high-grade prosthetics, painted purple with the joints being colored a glossy shade of black.

My wrongness senses kick in again, and not just because, you know, there's a fucking _dead body _right in front of me. It takes a few seconds to put the pieces together, but realization soon dawns on me.

Her limbs are pinned to the table with thick metal clamps.

If she was killed before she was brought here… then why bother restraining her? I frown thoughtfully, pacing carefully around the unsettling scene as I examine her. Was she restrained and _then _shot? Why do such a thing? That doesn't make any sense!

_None of this makes sense, _I remind myself a moment later. _Nothing's made sense since you woke up. Although you might be able to fix that if you stop standing there like a moron and keep investigating. _

Good plan. I like it.

My eyes move to the functional computer in the far corner of the room. Working my way over to it, I grab a nearby office chair and sit down, eager to pry out the device's secrets.

Password locked. Of course.

I sigh for the umpteenth time, mulling over what to do next. I consider myself to be decently tech-savvy, having fixed a PC or two for neighbors before, but I'm no hacker. My only real option at this point is to hope that whoever worked on this computer was dumb enough to use one of those ridiculously easy-to-crack passwords.

As it turns out, the password is 'password'. It baffles me how someone employed at a place like this could be so damn unimaginative.

The desktop screen is about as barebones as you can get. Document folders, an icon for what I presume is a Web browser, and solitaire. And that's about it. The screensaver is what really catches my eye, however – a blood red background emblazoned with a black logo resembling a fireball.

Directly left of the logo are words that send shivers down my spine:

_Sangvis Ferri, est. 2031_

…Just how long was I asleep for?! I'd surrendered my body to Prophet in late summer of 2023! Was my consciousness really gone for a whole eight years? Longer, maybe?

Whatever happened to my friends and family? Alice? Chino? Gould? Lieutenant Strickland? Are they alive? Are they looking for me? Did any of them even realize I'd gone missing?

Acutely aware of my steadily rising heartbeat, I click on the browser and swear profusely when I learn there's no Internet connection. So much for using Google to read up on current events.

I click the documents folder next. Adding to my growing ire, a lot of the saved files are named in techno-babble I don't have the time or patience to decipher. Clicking on them produces a doozy of charts, statistics, and other scientific jargon that makes zero sense to me; forcing myself to calm down and not do anything rash, I keep scrolling, searching for something, _anything _that could give me a hint about what went on in this facility.

The search soon pays off – I stumble across a series of six files labeled "ProjectJournal".

My grin threatens to split my face. _Jackpot._

I click the first entry and begin reading:

_Dr. Robert White, Log Entry 1_

_Here at Sangvis Ferri Ltd., we've always prided ourselves on the affordability, and more importantly, efficiency of our products. Unfortunately – and it shames me to admit this, even in private – our automatons simply can't match the raw computational_ _power of the ones manufactured by IOP, despite our best efforts to increase data storage capacity and compress non-critical internal subsystems._

_But no longer. Starting today, I've been assigned to a new research facility populated by the most intellectually gifted men and women from across the globe with the goal of breaking the boundaries separating man and machine. And by a stroke of divine fortune, we've secured the perfect test subject to help us advance our studies… a veteran Nanosuit operator unlike any other._

My first reaction is to blink in utter confusion. Automatons? Breaking the boundaries…? I gather that this Sangvis Ferri is (or was) a corporation in competition with a rival; nothing unusual about that. Probably specialize in robotics, too, although that doesn't explain how they captured me (or Prophet) or what their ultimate plan is.

I click on the next entry:

_Dr. Robert White, Log Entry 2_

_Fascinating – by simply disabling the limiters on the suit, Subject Zero has evolved into a three-way amalgamation; the pinnacle of symbiosis between humanity and technology. Medical data retrieved from former CELL laboratories also indicates that the suit was partially made from scavenged Ceph biotechnology… which, in retrospect, explains many of the frankly outlandish things it's capable of doing. Mentally triggering yourself to turn invisible? Preposterous! How in blazes did scientists back then convince anyone it was all humanly made?_

As if I needed a reminder that my full-body cast was made from materials barely understood by the primitive minds of humans.

I hadn't known it at first – it was Nathan Gould who dropped that particular bombshell, though at the time I'd brushed half his ramblings off as the result of him being a half-crazed, sleep-deprived druggie – but the reality is that Nanosuits weren't just designed to be the pinnacle of military combat armor. Prophet's flashbacks helped shed light on their true purpose: weapons of war against those damnable space squids.

Purists like Lockhart who were stuck in the old ways could bury their heads in the sand all they wanted; humanity would've gotten its collective ass bent over and _spanked _in a fair fight against the aliens, planetwide unity or no. It's what happens when you pick a fight with a race whose tech is at least an eon ahead of your own. It's why Hargreave and Rasch stuck their necks out to develop the suits – to give us a fighting chance for survival. We would've been extinct by now if those two fossils hadn't thought to employ the Ceph's own assets against them.

It also made the revelation that the suit was fusing to my body… a bit harder to cope with. I shouldn't be human anymore, not fully. Makes me wonder again how Sangvis Ferri got the damn thing off without killing me.

I need to know more. I almost don't want to continue, but curiosity wins out in the end.

_Dr. Robert White, Log Entry 3_

_Something strange happened when we extracted a DNA sample for study. By all accounts, we've been led to believe that Subject Zero's identity is Major Laurence Barnes, a former United States Army Ranger and one of the few survivors of the classified Lingshan Incident. However, the DNA taken from his blood didn't match any pre-existing samples. Perhaps the symbiosis has somehow altered his physiology on a genetic level? Dr. Rosenburg is having us cross-reference the sample with other known Nanosuit users, just in case._

_On a brighter note, I've heard from a colleague that the project to reverse-engineer Ceph plasma weaponry is coming along nicely. With any luck, the implementation of these weapons with our own First-Generation Tactical Dolls will let Sangvis Ferri continue to hold an edge over our competitors._

My brows furrow. The first part is easy enough to explain; back when I first got the suit, Gould mistook me for Prophet for quite a while, so I wouldn't put it past the whitecoats to make the same mistake. What I don't understand is, what the hell is a Tactical Doll? Do they have any connection with the automatons mentioned before?

_Dr. Robert White, Log Entry 4_

_Subject Zero continues to be full of surprises, both figuratively and literally._

_We conducted a brain scan this week in an attempt to figure out how the subject's neural map adapted to the Nanosuit's biochemistry. The results that came back astonished us: not only has his mind completely merged with the suit, we found evidence of a second personality in the hippocampus. My suspicions – which Dr. Rosenburg earlier dismissed as wishful nonsense, I should add – have been confirmed. The man we're dealing with isn't Laurence Barnes; it's a man who _thinks _he's Laurence Barnes. _Became _Laurence Barnes._

_Further study of the memory banks along with another DNA test identified this individual as James Rodriguez, or "Alcatraz" as he was known in the U.S. Marines. What puzzles me is that he isn't on the list of registered Nanosuit operators. My hypothesis is that Barnes transferred his suit to Alcatraz for unknown reasons at some point, but was unable to permanently sever its link to his mind. All I know for sure is that something terrible must've happened to this Alcatraz fellow if Barnes' personality copy was able to take over and achieve dominance._

Poor doc had no idea how right he was. I can still feel the phantom pain burning in my muscles… the horrible agony as the Ceph's flesh-eating virus buffeted me on all sides, tearing away at the Nanosuit's outer layer, hellbent on stopping me from reaching the heart of the hive… God, it felt like I was on fire, like I'd ventured into the depths of Hell itself.

The pain is the last concrete thing I remember before my memory fell apart. Though in hindsight, it would've been hard to forget.

_Dr. Robert White, Log Entry 5_

_Continued analysis of Subject Zero's brain uncovered something interesting._

_The original personality file, "Alcatraz", ceased uploading into the suit's database shortly after what we believe was a critical malfunction. Internal logs showed 42% corruption of the file; not even the Nanosuit could come up with a fix. If that's the case, then it's no wonder why Barnes' imprint was able to take control over the host body._

_Maybe there wasn't a way to fix the instabilities back then, but "back then" was a long time ago. Times have changed. Hell, the whole reason we're doing this is to assist Dr. Reese with his advanced AI research. This could be the break we need! If there's any corporation up to the challenge of repairing a damaged personality file in a comatose super-soldier, it's Sangvis Ferri. Who knows what valuable information we could learn in the process?_

"They… fixed me…?" I whisper.

These doctors and scientists at Sangvis Ferri… they spoke of me like I was a machine in need of repair instead of a person. I was a lab rat to them; nothing more, nothing less. And it was all done so they could achieve dominance in the fields of robotics and weapons manufacturing.

"Bastards…!"

My grip on the mouse tightens. I feel my blood boiling as I begin to shake in barely restrained rage. I hate them. _Hate _them! I don't care if they fixed my damn brain – fat chance they would've let me go afterwards, or even woke me up!

For once, I find myself glad the facility is abandoned. It means their little project must've failed in the long run, otherwise this hellhole wouldn't be a damned ghost town.

I'm about to find out just how right that assumption is.

_Dr. Robert White, Log Entry 6_

_Something's wrong. The Ripper unit we brought in for neural compatibility testing went berserk without warning. This wasn't because of the experiment – we hadn't even installed the prototype software yet, and I heard from Largo that the Dolls in the security wing also went out of control and started killing every human in sight indiscriminately. Chief Daniels was forced to place the whole area under lockdown._

_I'll never again mock Cornell for carrying a pistol on him at all times. He saved us from a messy end, that paranoid nutcase. _

_Apparently this wasn't an isolated incident, either. We got a message from HQ that all Sangvis-produced Dolls have gone rogue and are rampaging across the continent. Something to do with Dr. Reese's creation, I don't know. The whole Union is in chaos. We've received orders to copy as much data as we can, scuttle the rest, and evacuate the facility before the Dolls discover our location._

_To be completely honest, I still find it difficult to believe how screwed up the world's gotten in less than a half century. The Beilan Island incident, CELL taking over the world's energy supply, the Ceph invasion, yet another planetwide war… and now a full-scale robot revolution to top it off? Are you SHITTING me? _

_Ahem. Pardon my French._

_If this is in fact some type of revolution, then they can't be allowed to find what's down here; the Ringleader models especially. They can't be allowed to find Subject Zero. If they get their hands on him… I dread to think what would happen._

_We're leaving him here and erasing all records of this facility. As an additional safety measure, should the Dolls stumble across it by chance, we've rigged several mainframe systems to wake Subject Zero at the slightest infraction. _

_I went to look at him one last time. He's… changed. We succeeded in repairing the second personality file, but it ended up creating a split in his brainwaves. I think Alcatraz is taking over again. And the re-emergence of an old personality came with a body to match, as we soon found out._

_I only wish we could've taken him with us. There's still so much left to discover…_

* * *

The next fifteen minutes are spent finding another restroom so I can vomit my guts out.

My overloaded thoughts are temporarily pushed aside as retches and gagging noises emanating from deep in my throat echo through the stall. Nothing material comes out except flecks of spittle. If I were in a more lucid state of mind, I would've realized that I probably hadn't eaten anything in at least eight years and that there was nothing in my stomach to throw up. Doesn't mean I don't feel sick, though, I grouse as I wipe vestigial strands of saliva away.

I resume my aimless wandering shortly after my dry-heaving session is finished, not really paying much attention to where I'm going anymore. My legs are on autopilot: put one foot in front of the other, repeat until I'm outside. I become aware for the first time how stale the air in here tastes.

This is way too fucking much for my aching head to process. The handful of answers I'd gleaned from Dr. White's computer were vastly overshadowed by nightmarish revelations and even more straight-up dead-end questions.

Better to start unraveling the web of mysteries one thread at a time, I figure.

Okay. Let's start with me personally. Those Sangvis researchers somehow got my mind working again, so that's a plus. On the flipside, it seemed like Prophet wasn't ready to give up control for whatever fucking reason and chose to migrate into my human body with me. I don't know. The doc didn't go into detail about the procedures – classified shit that normies like me shouldn't understand, I guess – so there's always a chance I'm wrong about that.

I think back to my little break from sanity in the cryo-pod room, followed by the run-in with Prophet's likeness in the mirror. I pray I'm wrong. Pray those are lingering remnants of our connection and nothing more, and that they'll gradually fade away given enough time.

Oddly enough, there was never any mention of removing me from the Nanosuit. The doc must've skipped over that part.

Next subject: Tactical Dolls. Combat androids, or something similar. The dead woman on the operating table mustn't have been a woman at all; she was presumably the 'Ripper' that went haywire according to the logs.

My best guess is that Sangvis Ferri was studying my connection to the Nanosuit so they could develop a more sophisticated AI system for their Dolls. Is it a good guess? I like to think so. Is it the right guess? Don't know, don't really care. It's not important enough for me to dwell on-

I pause my stride through the corridor. Wait. One. Fucking. Minute.

Didn't Sith Bitch go on a whole rant about humans being inferior and how her 'creators' locked me away?

I'll say right now that I can be slow to grasp the obvious on occasion. Hell, when my adventures as a suited killing machine first started, it took me twenty embarrassingly long minutes to find an exit to the dockside warehouse I woke up in, even though the stairs were right friggin' there in front of me. But for all my lack of perception, I'm far from stupid, and I don't need a genius to point out to me that my new friend is most likely one of those rogue Tactical Dolls.

I resume my pace after that particular revelation, lightly snorting in amusement at how Sangvis' scheme to pick my brain for the sake of corporate profit went up in flames and how they were forced to resort to their contingency plan – waking their invaluable lab rat. I'm beginning to think the eggheads expected me to clean up their mess for them by killing any intruders.

I'm also beginning to think the Nova I'd found wasn't intended to be a last resort in case I tried to escape, but was put there for me to find if I _did _need to make an escape.

Smart idea. Would've been smarter if they left behind instructions on where to find the Nanosuit, though. Or at least given me some extra ammo and a pair of gym shorts.

Seriously, how did those dumbass scientists expect me to fight like this? I'll say it again: I'm as naked as a jaybird, and my only weapon (if I don't count my fists, which I certainly do not) is a pistol that might as well shoot foam darts for all the good it does against Ceph or body armor. I have no idea how durable these Doll androids are, and I'm in no rush to meet one and find out.

Even if the two I'd seen so far were kind of attractive, I grudgingly admit. They looked like the girls from Folsom's weird Japanese cartoons and comic books brought to life. Whoever designed their appearances must've been high as a kite in a hurricane.

Finally, I give some thought to current events; more specifically, the off-handed mention from Dr. White that a third World War had finally broken out.

Would it paint me as a pessimist if I say I'm not shocked in the slightest? Even before the whole New York fiasco, society as I knew it was on the brink of total collapse. People fought over everything, and I mean literally fucking _everything_ – politics, religion, immigration, resource consumption, what to do with the aging baby boomer population… for fuck's sake, we even argued about whether or not there were only two genders!

And that was only in good old Uncle Sam's territory. One of the main reasons I enlisted in the Marines, besides not having a damn clue what else to do with my life, was to keep the rest of the world's problems away from my country.

I succeeded… sort of. It got a lot more complicated when the Ceph began popping their jelly heads above ground. What were we supposed to do, raid their hives and deport them back to their home planet?

As humanity soon learned, the answer to that particular question was a hard 'no'.

Oh, and I've been thrown into the future, too. Can't forget about that. Is it still 2031? If not, how many more years have passed since Sangvis Ferri's founding? Hopefully not too many…

If it's something reasonable – five years, perhaps, or maybe eight at the maximum – then it shouldn't be _too _difficult for me to salvage the pieces of my old life back together. Yeah, Alice will be all grown up and would definitely freak the fuck out when she learned her older brother hadn't aged a mite since his disappearance, but she'd get over it.

_Assuming she's still alive, that is, _my killjoy brain points out. I rub my forehead with my free hand, sighing forlornly. Man, when I get out of here, I'll have a lot of phone calls to-

Pain wracks my skull once again.

I stumble, almost collapsing but managing to brace myself against the wall at the last moment. My eyes become hazy, unfocused.

More images flood my mind. More visions. More memories that don't belong to me.

This time I'm in a small room at a facility, but this one is different. Cleaner; more active. I should know what's going on but I don't. There's a man standing in my peripherals; I can't make out any definite features other than a shaved head, because the Nanosuit's visor is focused instead on a calendar tacked to the wall.

The date on the calendar reads November 2047.

The scenery around me breaks apart, dissolving into the ether before reforming into something else. Now I'm in… a cabin, I think, or a shack. Somewhere with ramshackle walls. The calendar is still there.

An unknown force suddenly tears off the page for the month of November, then December, then January and so on. The pages are ripped away faster and faster, with greater urgency each time, and I can only stare as the years fly by along with the whirlwind of shredded paper.

2048.

2049.

2050.

2051-

"_STOP!_"

I can't take this shit! Is this real? A hallucination? Why is this happening to me?! I just want it to stop already, goddammit!

And just like before, the images mercifully vanish in an instant.

I lean further into the wall, sucking in lungful after lungful of recycled air. Calm, Alcatraz. Calm. No use getting worked up over something I can't control.

What to do… I could hunt down one of the facility's former employees once I'm outside, strongarm them into finding a fix for whatever is wrong with my head. There's little doubt in my mind at this point that they're hallucinations; especially that last part with the calendar, because there was no goddamn way that was a memory, either mine or Prophet's.

Someone is going to fucking pay for screwing with my head like this.

* * *

There's urgency in my step now; a frantically growing desire to find any type of evidence to inform me I'm on the right track on finding a way out of this hellhole. Although I'd taken my time to explore before, with the threat of Sangvis Dolls looming overhead, along with the possibility of another mental break at any moment, I can't afford to be thorough anymore.

All my sources gave me enough information to piece together a rough idea of what's happening here, and I find myself wanting nothing to do with it. I'd be damned before I let those lifelike sex bots lock me away again.

As I swiftly work my way down another sprawling maze of hallways, ignoring the doors placed periodically on either side, a part of me chides myself on the thought I could be missing something valuable by not checking them. The smarter side of me argues that would be wasting precious time, and how I hadn't found anything noteworthy besides the dead Doll and some long-gone egghead's research computer.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me of yet another problem. Hopefully I'll stumble across a cafeteria sometime soon. Or maybe a vending machine; I'm not picky about snacks, and I know a few tricks on how to get goodies from them without paying. Most of them involve brute force.

I still don't have the vaguest idea of where I'm actually going. Left, right, left. Left again because fuck it, why not. Another right, halfway down the corridor. Dammit, there's a song stuck in my head now and I can't get rid of it.

Maybe I grew ignorant. Maybe I subconsciously thought, in a fleeting moment of idiotic complacency, that I'm no longer at risk of danger since I'd gone this long without encountering any. Or maybe it's something as simple and mundane as me spacing out for a few seconds. Could've been all three.

Like I said, I'm not always good at picking up on obvious signals. If I were, then I probably would've heard the march of footsteps approaching my direction as I round the next corner.

I come to a dead stop.

The little girl leading a platoon-sized squad does the same.

Her entourage, all of them identical to the dead Ripper from the lab and armed with futuristic-looking submachine guns, follow suit.

The pale girl cranes her neck upward to stare at me with bright yellow eyes, her mouth hanging open in shock. She's a tiny thing, dressed in a revealing one-piece black leotard, with strange black disks situated against her mechanical forelegs. Her long white hair is done up in twin ponytails similar to Sith Bitch's, though without the curls.

…Are those _grenade launchers _attached to her hips?!

Neither of us move for several moments. The girl's face is turning a shade of red that would put the juiciest tomatoes to absolute shame. It's somewhere in this timeframe that it dawns on me just what sort of position I'm in, and what any potential witnesses might misinterpret it as.

I am an adult male in my birthday suit, looming over a paralyzed girl who can't be any older than her early teens.

This is even more awkward than when I realized how big the Nanosuit made my ass look.

Feeling heat creeping up my own cheeks, I do the first thing that comes to mind: throw my hands up in a placating gesture and try my hardest to diffuse this pint-sized cherry bomb before it goes off in my face.

"Um, hi? I mean, hello there?" Fuck my lack of social skills. "Nice to meet you! You can call me Alcatraz. Or Alky, if that makes you more comfortable. It's what my old unit used to call me. Look, I'm sure you're probably a little freaked out right now, but I swear this isn't what it looks like-!"

The girl abruptly cuts me off with an ear-shattering scream. Her face going nuclear, she moves her arms to her weapons and I do NOT wait around to see what happens next.

I hear it, though. I'm already booking it back down the hallway when my eardrums are rattled by a chorus of explosions going off on the space I'd occupied a couple of seconds ago.

The cacophony of metallic footfalls shortly after tells me that she and her gang are giving chase.

"GET BACK HERE!" the girl shrieks, apparently enraged by my cowardly- erm, _tactical _retreat.

Like hell I'm going back there! She has dual automatic grenade launchers and a whole platoon of killer robots backing her up; all I've got is a dinky pistol and a weird physiology!

And that weird physiology is the only thing working in my favor right now. I run faster than I'd ever thought myself capable of, darting through corridor after corridor with an almost unnatural grace and precision, doing everything I can to throw off my pursuers. While the white-haired Sangvis Doll – because what the hell _else _can she be? – is armed to the teeth, it doesn't seem like she's built for intense exercise, and I'm betting that her slight frame and heavy weaponry will slow her down enough to eventually lose track of me.

My bet soon starts to pay off, I learn when I look back a few times to observe their progress. I can take sharp corners with ease, but the Sangvis girl has to slow down before each turn lest her momentum propel her further down the wrong hallway or into a wall. Furthermore, the sex squad behind her never once try to overtake her lead, despite all of them being in better physical shape than their leader.

Ducklings, after all, are never known to stray far from their mother.

The footsteps trailing me begin to grow more distant; they're relentless in their chase, but I hold the advantage in terms of raw speed. The soles of my bare feet smack loudly against the solid floor. My breathing is kept focused and controlled.

I swallow the lump in my throat and try not to panic at the thought of what those androids will do to me if they catch up. I'm already losing them anyway, so as long as nothing suddenly goes awry, then I'll be fine, right?

"Dammit, he's getting away!" I hear Jailbait Bitch exclaim with a growl. "We have no choice. Open fire!"

I hate my life. Prophet, if you're still in there somewhere, you can have my body back.

_No that was only a joke please don't actually–_

A startled yelp escapes my throat when purple laser beams – yes, fucking _laser beams _fly past me and impact against the wall ahead, leaving nasty scorch marks behind. Acting on pure instinct, I thrust the Nova behind me and retaliate with gunfire of my own, letting six blind shots loose at my attackers. I think I hit one of them, because I hear a weird fizzing noise followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. I don't dare turn back to check.

I'm in the middle of banking around another corner when it finally happens: I take a hit.

"_Aaargh!_" I clench my teeth to refrain from shouting as a stray energy bolt grazes my left hand. My momentum is quickly restored, however, thanks to a potent combination of adrenaline and a desperate want to _survive_.

I briefly check my hand to inspect the damage, expecting to see charred flesh mixed with cauterized blood. What I see instead makes my mind go blank.

Black synthetic muscle tissue; the same type used in the Nanosuit. The back of my hand where the blast struck is covered in the familiar hexagonal pattern composed of CryFibril nano-weave.

I continue to watch, astonished, as the damaged skin suddenly begins to mend itself before my eyes, soon knitting over and concealing the artificial muscle from view.

What… the fuck.

No words can accurately express how I feel just then. Shock, confusion, terror, and elation war for dominance within me, with none of them coming out on top. I… I didn't believe Sangvis Ferri's experiments could do something like that…

…What the hell have I become?

"Would you hold still, you naked freak?!" The shrill voice of my new acquaintance brings me back to the present. She's still chasing after me with dogged persistence, though I'm continually losing her bit by bit. "I don't know why, but Scarecrow said to capture you alive, and she'll be really angry at me if you keep resisting and get yourself killed!"

Naturally, I raise the one-fingered salute with my patched-up hand and keep running like the wind.

* * *

**(Fifteen Minutes Later)**

Curled up in a ball, huddling deeper into the shadows of my protective hiding spot, I gasp in several breaths of sanitized laboratory air.

I've finally lost them. It took a mad goose chase around the sprawling labyrinth of hallways, as well as the use of some creative mind games involving hiding in random rooms, but the pursuit is over. The last five minutes were spent squirreled away in another lab, awaiting the sound of their metal footsteps to come in and investigate that fortunately never came.

Being chased by crazy women is fucking scary.

My breathing eventually evens out to normal. Emerging from my hiding spot under a modestly sized oak desk, I carefully approach the doorway and make absolutely sure my fangirls are out of earshot before leaving.

"So those are Tactical Dolls, huh?" I quietly mutter to myself as I break into a brisk walk. The lifelike automatons manufactured for combat that ended up turning against their human creators? Evidently no one at Sangvis Ferri ever heard of the _Terminator _franchise, otherwise they would've seen this exact scenario coming and built a fucking off switch.

My one saving grace is that they don't seem nearly as durable as the fictional robots. Still far stronger than the average human, probably, though I'll wager in full confidence it won't take something as extreme as throwing one into a volcano to dispose of it.

They can be outsmarted, too, judging by my successful escape from the angry midget. I nod slowly, thoughtfully, gradually allowing my tense muscles to relax a little. I can do this. One way or another, I'm going to get the hell out and away from this accursed facility. After that… well, it all depends on how far-

_ELEVATOR._

There it is, situated at the end of the hallway like the golden light at the end of a dark tunnel. The doors are slightly ajar, and the dim interior light is flickering like it's having a damn seizure, but it's there, and it's _real_, and it's the most welcoming sight I've ever seen.

My legs move forward on their own. I want to cry tears of joy. I want to sing praises to the angels. Most of all, I want to get the fuck out of here, and I demonstrate that by prying the doors open with only a small fraction of my strength.

The buttons on the pad are labeled "1" from the top, down to "B5" at the bottom which is indicated as my current location. So… I'm underground? Huh, okay then. It doesn't make a huge difference.

"So long, Sangvis bitches!" I snicker, grinning ear-to-ear as I press the button to take me to the surface.

...

...

...

Nothing happens.

I frown, pressing it again. Then again. Then a fourth time. I break into a cold sweat, my button mashing getting more and more frantic with each failed input.

No… NO! The elevator can't be broken; not now! I'm _so close _to escaping!

My heart drops to my ankles. My body mirrors the motion as I slump against the wall, then slide to the ground, turning my eyes up but not really looking at anything, wondering what the hell I'm going to do now. The Dolls will pick up my trail sooner or later, and when that happens… well…

I raise the Nova in front of my face to inspect it again. There are fourteen shots left in the mag, though I'll only need one if they surround me and drive me into a corner. Their master will have a much harder time studying my brain if it's splattered all over the floor.

As long as I get the last laugh...

Something in the background attracts my attention. I lower my gun, and all of my morbid thoughts are immediately forgotten.

There's an emergency hatch on the roof of the elevator.

My grin returns in full force.

"James Rodriguez, the Lord might still be smiling down on you today."

* * *

Compared to all the horseshit I've put up with since my release from stasis, climbing the cable inside a darkened elevator shaft is the least interesting thing to happen to me today.

It's not relaxing by any means, however. I have to adjust my body before each tug to ensure the wiring doesn't rub my manhood the wrong way or anything. Additionally, since this task requires both hands, I'm forced to hold the barrel of my handgun between my teeth for the whole ascent. It tastes like polymer and bad life choices.

In retrospect, shutting the hatch behind me in case the Dolls discovered the elevator and found out what I was up to wasn't the most intelligent idea. An open hatch would've provided illumination, however limited. As it is, I can barely see a foot in front of me, and I almost lose my grip a few times when I reach for what I think is the cable, only to grasp empty air.

Also in hindsight, I hadn't planned on how to get the top floor doors open once I got that far. I'll jump that hurdle when I reach it – there are still three floors to go.

It's an agonizingly slow climb, even with my mysteriously enhanced stamina.

I find myself replaying the song in my head from earlier. Whatever helps pass the time.

Two floors left to go… a floor and a half… _almost there…_

_Ding!_

Every muscle in my body goes rigid when the doors to the top floor unexpectedly part. A feminine silhouette is barely visible above me, and when another young woman approaches the open ledge, I swear my heart stops beating altogether.

"Well, well…" She croons at me with a bemused smile, her voice echoing down the shaft. "I see you found a loophole with the elevator we disabled. You even managed to avoid Destroyer and her team… You're a resourceful one, aren't you?"

Unlike the Dolls I'd encountered before, there is no mistaking this chick for a human. Her flowing mane of jet-black hair stands in stark contrast to her malicious red eyes. All her limbs are reinforced with black metal; her right arm in particular is constructed as a massive mechanical slab, ending with long, clawed fingers holding a fucking _sword _of all things.

"Unfortunately for you, human, I'm afraid your efforts weren't enough." She unholsters an energy pistol with her free hand, pointing it at me.

I just sit there like a doe in fucking headlights, clutching the cable like a lifeline, eyes wide and with my own pistol still in my mouth. God isn't smiling on me any longer.

Then the girl chuckles, placing her pistol back in its holster.

Before I can sigh in sweet relief through my nose, she rears her sword back and severs the cable with one swift cut.

I tumble down. Down into the darkness of the shaft, my doom mere seconds away. My limbs are flailing in all directions, the Nova flying out of my mouth. I keep my eyes glued on the demented Doll as she mockingly waves at me, then turns and disappears from sight, leaving me to my inevitable fate.

I try to scream but no sound comes out. Gravity tugs me further down, the air whipping against my naked, vulnerable body.

This is it. I'm going to fucking die here. I'm going to die alone and forgotten; the only ones to remember my brief revival would be a group of evil machines whose goals for me I'd never know.

My final thoughts are of my family, and my squad.

Prophet's parting message suddenly rings in my head:

_"Welcome to the future, son. Welcome to the war."_

A second, more emotionless voice follows next, clear as day in my ears. It sounds kinda like Prophet but it's heavily distorted, deeper. More machine than man. It only speaks two words, and they're words I never thought I'd be hearing again. Words I _shouldn't_ be hearing again:

"_MAXIMUM ARMOR._"

I black out a second later.

* * *

**I'm no Peter Watts, but hopefully this is good enough to get some people interested.**

**Let me clarify a few things: On the subject of Alcatraz (and Prophet by extension), I'm assuming his "human" form mimics a normal person as closely as possible, down to having functioning internal organs. ****_Crysis _****canon is kinda sketchy on that.** **The novels state that the Nanosuit slowly consumes the wearer's organic body for fuel, even though in ****_Crysis 3 _****a scan of Prophet clearly shows Alcatraz's human remains are still in there. Of course, this takes place after the trilogy when the suit can shapeshift into anything, so I think I can afford to make some stuff up.**

**Speaking of making stuff up… Alcatraz canonically died before the Nanosuit could fully copy his personality (or the data got corrupted, which is what I'm going with), hence why Prophet is the dominant host. Let's assume that Sangvis Ferri found a way to bring Alcatraz's mind back by fixing the damage and allowing the upload to finish. This ended up causing a "split" since there are now two personalities inhabiting one body. This will be covered more in a later chapter.**

**On a different note, I was serious when I said these two games were meant for each other. Just replace the Precursors with the Ceph and boom, you've got the potential for an amazing crossover!**

**Also, don't expect future chapters to be this long. They'll be done when I decide they're done. In the meantime, any feedback is greatly appreciated!**

**And finally, the pairing. I've narrowed it down to two choices… What do you guys think? Is Springfield the best raifu? Or is Soppo on toppo?**

**(I'm drunk again, sorry.) **


	2. We Make Marines

**So, uhh… based on the feedback, this story I decided to write just for funsies ended up becoming a masterpiece. I think I accidentally set the expectations bar pretty damn high. Hooray?**

**Moving on, this chapter exists for two reasons. Reason one is that I want to give Alcatraz a more fleshed-out backstory that ties together some of what we already know – his family, his reasons for enlisting, stuff like that which was touched on but never really discussed in-depth. **

**The second reason is because I want to keep last chapter's cliffhanger dangling a little longer. :P **

**Also, I have decided the pairing. The chosen raifu is… SF's lovable demolitions expert, Architect! (Nah, just kidding. But I **_**did **_**make a decision.)**

* * *

**(Beaufort County, South Carolina, USA)**

**(October 5th, 2020)**

_Thump._

It's the jostling of the old vehicle as it runs over a pothole that yoinks me out of dreamland. My eyes immediately snap open; my whole body tenses like a coiled spring, prepared to make a move the moment my brain gives the signal. It takes a second for me to remember where I am and what all the noise around me is, but when I do, I allow my muscles to slacken.

I'm with maybe about two dozen other guys – all ranging between seventeen and twenty-nine, all hailing from the east side of the Mississippi – inside a beat-up, propaganda-laden bus, packed together like sardines in a can.

Stifling a yawn, I stretch as much as I can afford to in my cramped spot between the window and the dude sitting next to me who fails to pay me the slightest bit of attention. Figure I must've fallen asleep at some point. The clunker's gotta be pushing fifty and doesn't seem to be slowing down at all, so I reckon we still have ways to go before we reach our destination.

I glance at my reflection in the window. No Sharpie dicks on my face. Good.

My eyes wander over the bus's other occupants next. Short guys, tall guys, slim guys, wide guys, guys with charcoal skin squeezed next to pasty white guys who must've only crawled out of mom's basement when it was time to leave for the airport. Guys with arms like toothpicks sharing dirty jokes with total brickhouses who could snap those arms in two without breaking a sweat. Guys from all walks of life seated together on this bus, chatting and joking and laughing about anything and everything, now all united for one singular purpose.

To become United States Marines.

Sometimes I overhear specific snippets of chatter, typical male subjects like _Here's a photo of my girlfriend, isn't she hot_ or _You gonna get the new Halo over the holidays? _Things like that. Conversations where I could throw in my two cents and sound smart while doing so, and I probably would have if I still cared about any of that stuff.

As it stands, I continue my observation in silence.

One thing that makes me stick out like a sore thumb compared to the others is how I'm dressed. Every guy in this bus is wearing something smart, businesslike; freshly pressed shirts and shined shoes, perhaps meant to impress our DIs when we meet them. Someone up front's even applying hair spray. Fucking dumbass. Doesn't he realize where we're headed?

By contrast, I must look homeless: greasy hair, badly faded jeans, and sneakers that really weren't designed to handle the amount of abuse I've put them through. All of these are overshadowed by an ancient hooded sweatshirt that would've fallen apart ages ago if Alice hadn't been kind enough to keep sewing it back together. A lot of the original fabric is gone, replaced by clumsily placed yet durable – and more importantly, warm – patchwork.

My chest involuntarily tightens. I'm reminded of the reason I signed up in addition to what I told my recruiter last month. I push those thoughts aside – what's done is done, I remind myself.

I learned at a young age that people are more malleable than they probably realize. Don't enjoy flipping burgers for minimum wage? Hand in your resignation letter and find a new job. No one but yourself is keeping you in a stagnant workplace. Not satisfied with your hair color? Dye it pink or something, do whatever the hell you want with it. It's your choice. It's your life.

What's that? Don't like your life in general? Join the Marines. They'll break you down and build you back up into someone that might just be worth a damn.

Here's hoping that's what happens to me.

Eventually the bus begins bleeding momentum. The excited background chatter breaks down into hushed whispering, and by the time the rolling relic grinds to a stop with an ear-splitting _scree_, everyone's lips are sealed tight.

Doors creak open. Boots stomp on metal. A walking representation of the hell we're about to go through appears, boarding the bus with a commanding presence similar to an alcoholic father with a belt in hand.

And the first thing that comes to mind is _Aren't you a little fat to be a drill instructor?_

The thought evaporates when I take a closer look at him, though. It's easy to miss, but underneath that pudgy outer layer of dark skin is pure _steel_. Dude probably divvies up his time eating donuts and screaming himself hoarse at idiot recruits to burn off the calories. The wide-brimmed hat perched atop his bald head makes me think of a police chief, even though I'm fully aware he's five times more badass and ten times less forgiving.

He sweeps his gaze across the crowded interior. It might just be the sudden rush of nervousness talking, but I swear his beady little eyes linger on me specifically for a moment; I greet them in turn with my best poker face.

"All of you look at me right now!" he thunders. Right, because we're not already doing that.

There's a hectic response of "Aye, sir!" and "Yes, sir!"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

"YES, SIR!"

"AYE, SIR!"

"You are now a part of Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island, South Carolina, Building 521 receiving company! From now on, the only words that come out of your mouth are 'Yes sir, no sir' when somebody asks you a question! When somebody gives you an order, you respond with 'Aye sir'! Do you understand?!"

"Yes, sir!" My acknowledgement can't be picked out through all the yelling.

The stony expression of the man who now dictates our lives doesn't budge an inch. I wonder how many times he's seen this all before. "Get up, get out, all of you!" he booms. "GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!"

We obey because what other choices do we have? I hastily grab my paperwork folder, the only item in my possession besides my wallet and the ratty clothes on my back, then join the others as we rush out of the bus like it's about to explode. Sheriff Oorah's right outside, hollering at us to move our asses as we emerge into the cold night air.

The guys ahead of me are already lining up in a typical military formation, the Depot's front gate to their right. How did they-? _There_. Yellow footprints painted on the asphalt, signifying where we need to stand. I haul ass to a spot that looks appropriate and promptly root myself in place.

No sooner do my sneakers kiss the paint where God-knows-how-many men stood before than I hear the bus rev up and drive off to greener pastures, leaving us poor suckers to our inevitable fate. Too late for second thoughts now. Too late to chicken out.

Once we're all lined up like eggs in a carton, DI waltzes up front and begins pacing back and forth, hands behind his back, boring through us with a predatory glare.

Then he shouts again, although he pauses frequently, likely saving his breath for when he'll need it later. "You! Have taken the first step! In becoming a member! Of the world's elite fighting force, the United States Marine Corps!"

Really? I thought the first step was when I signed my life away back at the recruiter's office.

"The Marine Corps' success depends on teamwork!" he continues. "Teamwork is an essential part of your training! Here! At MCRD PI! From now on you will live, sleep, eat, and _train _as a team! Now! Put your folders on the ground!"

We achieve this totally random objective with a chorus of _Aye, sir_'s.

"NOW PICK IT UP!"

"Aye, sir!"

"PUT IT DOWN!"

"Aye, sir!"

"PICK IT UP!"

"Aye, sir!"

This goes on for about a minute.

"Now!" DI says after our impromptu workout. "When I tell you to, you're gonna turn your heads and face my building!" He points a meaty finger at the receiving building. "FACE MY BUILDING!"

"Aye, sir!"

I jerk my head to the side along with the other – recruits? No, not yet. Not until we're on the other side of those silver doors – and drink in the view of Parris Island Depot's imposing entranceway. It honestly resembles a classic movie theater entrance more than the gates to what will hopefully be the start of a better life for me. It's even got a sign above the doors where lists of new movies are usually displayed, complete with a message:

_THROUGH THESE PORTALS PASS PROSPECTS FOR AMERICA'S FINEST FIGHTING FORCE_

_UNITED STATES MARINES_

Though in my opinion it may as well say "_HAHA YOU'RE ALL FUCKED"_.

Trepidations aside, however, I'm getting pretty psyched. This is it. All I have to do is pass through those doors and all of my past mistakes won't matter anymore. Over the next thirteen weeks, I'll shed my shell of antisocial behavior and self-loathing to become the bigger, better, and more responsible person I should've been from the beginning. It's too late to change my home life but I still have an opportunity to make amends. This is the best I can do now, it's the best _all_ of us can do.

Most of us standing here signed up for the same reason. I doubt there's a soul in this parking lot that isn't aware of the planet's slippery slide into Shitsville. We hadn't taken the tree huggers seriously before and humanity is now paying for its collective ignorance, and paying _hard_. Last I heard on the news, Mother Nature was in the middle of reclaiming Venice as her own. It's still practically a footnote compared to some of the other crises happening around the globe – fresh water shortages and increasing numbers of riots, to name two off the top of my head. Oh, and Australia's on fire again. That's three.

Funny thing is, nobody's really sure why it all started escalating just at the end of August.

Me? Eh, that's part of why I joined. I wasn't lying when I told my recruiter I want to help restore some semblance of order in this fucked up world we live in. But that's not the main reason I decided to throw my old life away. Nah, it's… a bit more personal than that, something I'd never freely admit.

What I really want out of the Corps most of all – above the shiny medals and cool guns and all-you-can-eat crayons and everything else – is to find the courage needed to look my baby sister in the eye and tell her _"__I'm sorry"_.

"FACE ME NOW!" Oh, right, DI's still talking.

"Aye, sir!"

"Not loud enough! FACE MY BUILDING!"

"Aye, sir!"

He circles around us as easily as a shark swims through water, sniffing for blood in the form of weakness. I guess he doesn't find any since he completes his inspection without chewing anyone out.

"Now when I tell you to – AND THIS GOES FOR ALL OF YOU – you're gonna follow me through those doors and find your drill sergeant, understood?!"

"Yes, sir!"

"SCREAM FOR ME!"

"YES, SIR!"

He ushers us in one column at a time, constantly yelling at us to hurry it up, hurry it up, not keep 'em waiting. We very narrowly avoid the domino effect when some dude in the back trips into the guy ahead of him. Hoo boy, that would've made for one hell of a first impression…

And just like that, I'm on the other side, and James Carlos Rodriguez the civilian transitions to James Carlos Rodriguez the recruit.

* * *

We're given the opportunity to phone our next of kin, inform them of our safe arrival and my hands are shaking and my palms are sweating and fuck fuck _fuck _why am I so nervous?

Oh. Now I remember. Alice doesn't know I signed up for the military. Is she worried about me? Mad at me? Should I call her? Let her know her big brother's doing okay for himself, ready to turn his life around and start a new career?

Or do I call Ron? My dad's best friend (a Vietnam War veteran and former Semper Fi alumni himself) let me chill at his place after Child Protective Services took my sister into foster care, thereby giving me no reason to stay at home with my lunatic of a mother. Ron's a PTSD-ridden, drunken pervert at the best of times, but I still feel like I owe the guy, especially after he graciously introduced me to the joys of drowning your sorrows in a bottle of alcohol.

He's also the one who talked me into joining the Marines and not one of the other branches. To quote his exact words: "Navy's fucking gay. Chair Force doesn't do jack-diddly-shit. Army's lying when they say they'll give you a Porsche and if you so much as utter 'Coast Guard' within earshot of me then Manny's son or no, I'll kick your Hispanic ass to the moon."

What my old man sees in him, I will never know.

It doesn't occur to me that my feet are moving on their own while I'm busy panicking over what to do. Almost before I realize it, I'm next in line, still no closer to reaching a decision and still on the verge of freaking out and _goddammit do something_-!

The phone nearly shakes itself out of my grip as I reflexively dial Alice's cell number.

It rings once. Twice. Three times. Maybe she left her phone to charge and isn't around to hear it. Or maybe she's simply ignoring the unfamiliar number. Maybe-

_"__Hello?"_

My whole body goes ramrod straight, stiff as a board. The reception's not great but there's no mistaking that meek voice: dear sweet Alice, my precious younger sister, the girl I worked my fucking _ass_ off to support after Mom went crazy and Dad's meager pension failed to keep up with the bills. The girl I failed to provide for in the end, no matter how much paying work I managed to scrounge up between extra shifts at my part-time job.

"This is Recruit Rodriguez; I have arrived safely at Parris Island!" My mouth is already reciting the words before my brain can process their meaning. God, why am I getting so lightheaded all of a sudden? It's just a fucking phone call! "Please do not send any food or bulky items to me in the mail!"

_"__James? James, is that you?! Where are you?"_

It kills me to have to talk over her. "I will contact you in seven to nine days by letter with my new address! Thank you for your support and goodbye for now!"

_"__James, what are you-"_

The phone slams back into place, probably with more force than needed. I wipe my sleeve across my eyes as I leave to follow the other recruits down a hallway to the right. It comes away moist.

"Turn off the waterworks, recruit!" a female DI hollers at me. "You knew what you were signing up for, so suck it up!"

"Aye, ma'am!" I shout in reply, hustling forward just a bit faster.

Lady raised a good point despite her attitude. For better or worse, joining the military was the best option at my disposal if I don't want to spend the rest of my years a pathetic, woe-is-me piece of shit who sits around whining about how life is cruel while the world crumbles around him.

It's about time I start dedicating my existence to a greater cause. It's about time I start feeling _good _about myself.

* * *

**(Chow Hall, Three Days Later)**

Know what the military does with recruits who are almost up to standard, but are kind of on the skinny side? Give 'em double servings at mealtime to help fatten them up. Just my luck that I'm the only motherfucker in Omega Company who showed up to boot camp eight pounds underweight. Just my luck that I've become the 'double rat recruit'.

Just my luck that the rest of my platoon has all-consuming black holes where their stomachs should be, and how they noticed I've been getting two baked potatoes instead of one.

Makes me think of the Last Supper, you know, when Jesus broke some bread to share with his loyal apostles. Except I'm not nearly as charismatic as the J-Man, my 'apostles' are a ragtag bunch of jarheads-in-training, and the only miracle here is how none of us have conked out yet after three days of paperwork, medical tests, vaccines (suck it, you anti-vaxx Karen types), and no sleep whatsoever.

The other recruits' initial image of me as some kind of food messiah was only strengthened by the fact that I also get extra packets of cheese sauce. I quickly discovered that in the military, whether at home or abroad, he who controls the flow of sauce controls everything.

But I'm not these men's Lord and Savior. I give nothing away. The DI monitoring the lunchroom was quick to catch on to my newfound (and admittedly unwanted) popularity, and he made it crystal fucking clear what would happen if I were to be caught building up a cult centered around broccoli and Cheez Whiz.

So, yeah. I eat everything on my plate like a good little soldier.

Most of the other guys ditched the cult lifestyle once they figured out I had no intention of sharing, DI's warning notwithstanding, so I'm left mostly alone as I eat my dinner tonight. Tomorrow's Friday, or as some are calling it, Black Friday – which is when we'll be meeting our senior drill instructor. The whole boot camp experience will really kick off after that; best to enjoy what respite I have left before my schedule is swallowed up by drills, classes, and PT. I figure it's also worth trying to put on as much weight as possible before I inevitably lose it all over the following weeks.

I take the time as I eat to indulge in my new favorite activity of people watching. The cafeteria's noisy as usual; I notice that much right away. Some dudes are still stuck on the subject of girls and video games, even after three days, talking through mouthfuls of beef. I'm lined up shoulder-to-shoulder along a table with my platoon, and the _sounds _some of them are making as they dig into their food reminds me of pigs at a trough. Which, now that I think about it, is exactly what we are: Livestock on a fixed feeding schedule, with the owners keeping a careful eye on us in case one of the animals gets out of line.

I learned other things over the days, too. I learned the 'everyone stops eating when your DI finishes' rumor really is just a rumor. I got confirmation that most of the others in my platoon signed up for the same reason as I did, because they weren't satisfied with the direction their lives were headed. Okay, cool, so I'm not alone there.

Something else I learned is that the mess sergeant doesn't give a flippity fuck about your gluten-free diet. I thought he'd ruptured a blood vessel, I never saw a man's face turn that red before. Kinda had me worried for a few moments.

Not all of us are interested in what could be considered _normal _conversation topics, though. There's this one guy in particular…

"Y'all hear about the cover-up at the Lingshan Islands? Word on the 'Net is that our military was testing some kind of top-secret super-soldier project over there, and that something went wrong enough to send the planet's climate into a frenzy!"

…Yeah.

Ellsworth, I think his name is. Dale Ellsworth. Some farm boy from the Georgian boonies where the only form of entertainment is listening to conspiracy theorists hawk their claims over the radio, which is exactly what this guy ended up doing. The worst part is that some of me is convinced he actually believes half the shit he regurgitates during mealtime.

Details on the circumstances behind this particular rant are scarce, but even us recruits are aware that something big went down over in the South China Sea. You don't lose three aircraft carriers and a couple hundred marines and not expect anyone to ask questions. It just doesn't work that way. The media's been tight-lipped about the incident, which I'll admit is suspicious, but it's nothing worth fretting over in my own humble opinion. We've got more urgent things to worry about now.

Still. Some people can't resist the lure of a good conspiracy.

"Cut the crap, Ellsworth." The recruit sitting to my left snorts in derision. "It's total bullshit if you ask me. Even if the military _was _creating super-soldiers under the media's noses, how does prototype hardware fuck up so badly that it throws the whole world off-kilter?" He elbows me in the side. "Tell this nutjob how it is, uhh… What's your name again?"

I'm tempted to say _Food Jesus _but instead answer honestly. "Rodriguez. James Rodriguez."

"Nice to meetcha, bro. Robert Garcia."

We shake hands.

I turn back to Ellsworth once the introduction's over with. "For the record, he's right. Society's falling apart all around us and all you can think about is some military fuck-up in the ass end of nowhere? C'mon, man. Get your head in the game."

Ellsworth's not having it. "That's just the thing! It _wasn't _the military that fucked up; ours _or _the KPA's!" Now he's grinning like a jerkass older sibling who knows a particularly embarrassing secret of yours. "It was something else, man. Rumor has it the Koreans dug up an artifact; something we were never supposed to find. Something ancient." He tilts forward, his excitement growing by the second until he can't hold it in anymore. "Something _alien_."

"The script for _Battlefield Earth 2_?" a fourth guy interjects. This one I'm sort of familiar with already: Henry Pletsch. Real smart guy, almost scarily so. He could've gotten enrolled in a prestigious college on an academic scholarship if the Double Dip hadn't put most of the industry through the wringer. Multilingual, too, and in the rare case that he knows more than just the dirty words.

He's also watched all one-thousand-something episodes of _One Piece_, if I heard correctly.

My lips curl into a microscopic smile as half the table breaks into amused chuckling.

Ellsworth takes it all in stride. "Close, man. But no: I'm talking _literal alien relics_. Real men from outer space came to Lingshan in the distant past, left their technology behind, and the U.S. deployed those carriers alongside elite black ops teams to make sure it didn't fall into Korean hands."

"Why Lingshan, though?" Garcia asks. Pletsch, meanwhile, rolls his eyes and returns his attention to his sandwich. "Like I said, it's in the middle of fucking nowhere. Those islands are barely a blip on the radar. Why would space aliens choose to set up shop there?"

"For discretion's sake?" Wait, that's _me_ who's speaking. Crap. I'd been hoping to take a page from Pletsch's book and not get sucked into all the stupid happening around me.

"Precisely!" Ellsworth nods approvingly at me as though he's a teacher and I'd just answered a particularly difficult question. "And that's why I signed up, fellas. Not for patriotism – naw, nothing like that. The way I see it, since we know for a fact there were marines involved at Lingshan, the best chance I have at solving this mystery is to become a jarhead myself."

I struggle to wrap my head around his logic. Struggle, and fail.

"…That makes no sense whatsoever." My words come out dry as dust.

"Just make sure you have a dildo on standby if the aliens come knocking," Garcia chips in. "You know, so they can't probe your anus."

I'm almost relieved when a drill instructor cuts off whatever my conspiracy nut squadmate is about to say next.

"Chow hall closes in two minutes, recruits! Finish up what's on your plates and report to the squad bay immediately! And if we find so much as a crumb not properly disposed of, then y'all better start praying to the Virgin Mary!"

"Aye, sir!" comes the collective reply. I'm almost used to it by now.

* * *

**(Black Friday)**

We're herded into… well, it's not a meeting room, that's for sure. Actually, I don't know _what _this room is used for outside of contractually binding us idiot sheep to our shepherds. No comfy chairs or rugs for us to sit on; we're all piled in and politely instructed at a volume of one hundred decibels to sit down cross-legged on the cold bare floor. We're children at an elementary school assembly waiting for the puppet show to begin.

Let me tell you, what enters the room and stalks in front of us a minute later is way fricking scarier than any Antichrist hand puppet.

Four dudes, one African-American, the rest Caucasian. All of them are built like _tanks_: Even the meanest sons of bitches on the bus earlier don't hold a candle to the overwhelmingly macho aura these guys give off. I like to think I'm in pretty good shape – spent a few years before signing up doing manual labor, but… damn. I feel ashamedly small in their mere presence. It's like watching four Dwayne Johnsons assigned as our personal trainers get themselves ready to unleash absolute hell on our sorry grunt asses.

Not only are they beefy motherfuckers, they're disciplined to boot. They march to the front of the room in flawless sync, never breaking focus, never showing the slightest bit of individuality. They don't even acknowledge the rows of awed younglings eye-raping them as they get into formation against the far wall.

I wonder if Pletsch is also having _Attack of the Clones _flashbacks.

One of the men – I think he's the company captain – doesn't form up with the rest. Instead he turns to face them and raises his right arm at a perfect ninety-degree angle, holding his hand skyward. The three other marines imitate the gesture.

"These recruits are entrusted in my care!" he announces.

The DIs are quick on the response, having recited their oath countless times before. "These recruits are entrusted in my care!"

"I will train them to the best of my ability!"

"I will train them to the best of my ability!"

Not gonna lie, this is pretty epic. I watched videos of boot camp before my departure, tried to familiarize myself with what to expect and how to cope. One vid filmed in the San Diego Depot had the exact same oath carried out as the one being pledged right in front of me. It's one thing to see it online – sitting here, actually witnessing it in person, knowing that _I'm _one of the recruits they're talking about? Totally different feeling. It's indescribable.

"I will develop them," the captain carries on, "into smartly disciplined, physically fit, basically trained marines! Thoroughly indoctrinate them for Corps and country! I will demand of them, and demonstrate by my example, the finest example of personal conduct, morality, and professional skills!"

Wait, what's this about indoctrination? I must've skimmed over that part…

"Senior Drill Sergeant! Take these recruits, and make them into United States Marines!" Company Captain gives one last order to one of the Caucasian guys.

Senior DI snaps into a crisp salute. "Aye, sir!"

Satisfied that we're in good hands, Cap turns and leaves the room without another word. As soon as the door slams shut behind him, however, Senior DI's stoic expression immediately drops, replaced by another that can only be described as barely restrained rage.

_Here we go…_

And then he just flat-out _explodes _at us: "SIT UP STRAIGHT! LOOK AT ME RIGHT NOW!"

"Aye, sir!" All the recruits, myself included, suddenly grow a little taller.

"My name is Staff Sergeant Kane, and I am your senior drill instructor! I am assisted in my duties by drill instructor, Staff Sergeant McConnell-" He gestures to the other pale-skinned guy, who takes a step forward, "-and drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Fowler." The black dude follows suit. "Our mission is to train each one of you to become a United States Marine!"

The corner of my mouth twitches slightly. Thank you, Mr. Kane; I never would've figured that out myself. Where the hell does he think we are? Ballerina school?

I keep my reservations private, of course. Last thing I want is to give these men a reason to scream at me not even two minutes after meeting them.

"A marine," Kane goes on, "is characterized by one who possesses the _HIGHEST _of military virtues! He obeys orders, _RESPECTS HIS SENIORS_, and strives constantly to be the best at everything that he does!"

He begins pacing down the dividing line between the platoon. The two other DIs stay put, imposing and unmovable, like mountains.

"Discipline and spirit are the hallmarks of a marine!"

And crayons. Don't forget the crayons.

"Each of you can become a marine if you can build up discipline and spirit!"

And finish a 64-pack of Crayola.

_Dammit, James, quit horsing around! _A tiny voice in my head scolds me. _That man went through everything you're about to and more, and came out stronger for it. He'll be the one to guide you to a brighter future; the least you can do in return is show him a little respect._

"We will give every effort to train you, even after some of you have given up on yourselves! Starting now, you will treat all marines with the HIGHEST level of respect, for we have EARNED our place as marines, and will accept NOTHING LESS THAN THAT FROM YOU! We will treat you as we do our fellow marines: with firmness, fairness, dignity, and compassion!

"At NO TIME will you be physically abused or verbally threatened by a marine or recruit! If anyone _should _abuse or mistreat you, I expect you to report such incidents immediately or me or to one of my drill instructors! Further, if you feel _I _have mistreated you, I expect you to report it to your Series Commander, Captain Higgins!"

Good. Means I won't have to put up with any two-faced shitholes like my mom. While I get along with my platoon for the most part, there do happen to be two or three guys I'm still a bit leery of…

"From now on, my drill instructors and I will be with you _EVERY DAY_, no matter _where _you have to go! I have told you what my drill instructors and I will do… From YOU, we demand the following! You WILL give 100 percent of yourselves at all times; obey all orders quickly, willingly, and without question; treat all marines and recruits with courtesy and respect! You will NOT physically abuse or verbally threaten any marine or recruit! Be completely honest in everything that you do. A marine never lies, cheats, or compromises! Respect the rights and properties of others! A marine _never steals_! You must work hard to strengthen your body. Be proud of yourself, and the uniform that you wear!"

…What's this strange feeling emanating from the bottom of my gut? It's not the usual resigned negativity aimed at the world in general, nor the unease that plagues my every waking moment these days. It feels more… positive. It's a weird feeling – almost foreign, even – but I find myself really, really liking it.

You know what, Staff Sergeant Kane? I _am _feeling pretty prideful all of a sudden. I went from being a directionless nobody to a Marine Corps recruit – which isn't all that uncommon, I'm sure, but this is the most I've felt like I have a purpose in months. I'll show you and your fellow scary DIs just how much I want that EGA pin.

"Above all else… **_NEVER QUIT_**, or give up! For we offer you the challenge of recruit training – the opportunity to earn the title… of _United States Marine_!"

Semper-fucking-Fi, my man. Watch out, world: James Rodriguez & Co. are coming to restore balance whether you want it or not.

Kane orders us to get to our feet, shake our legs off. We comply with another round of "Aye, sir!" before we're given further instructions to report back to the squad bay for our first set of drills. I'm totally pumped; I'm ready to take whatever boot camp has to dish out. All I have to do is put in the same hard work, find the same mindset that gave me the drive to get off my lazy ass and help support the family, and I'm guaranteed to see that pin thirteen weeks down the road. This time, I won't fail.

Don't worry, Alice. Your big brother's going to be just fine.

* * *

**Shout-out to my buddy Jay (a full-fledged Marine Corps infantryman) for helping me write this chapter.**

**I'll sprinkle these mini-chapters detailing Alcatraz's backstory throughout the fic** **whenever I'm either a) short on ideas, or b) feel like the main plot isn't ready to advance yet. They'll cover snippets of his life ranging from his time in boot camp to right before the events of the game.**

**If anyone remembers from the novel, Alcatraz turned downright ****_murderous _****when he witnessed CELL killing off the remnants of his squad. At least in my opinion, they deserve to be fleshed out more, the guys in the sub especially.**

**That'll have to wait for now, though. Maximum Butt-Kicking is right around the corner, and man oh man, it is going to be ****_epic_****.**


	3. Resurgence

**I've gotten a couple of reviews saying ****_Crysis _****needs more recognition and fanfics (a statement I 100% agree with). Out of curiosity, I decided to check out the series' fic archive for myself, and all I have to say about it is… Yeesh. No wonder so many people are flocking to my recent addition. The only "story" I found that didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out was a one-shot about a pretty cool CELL trooper named Johnny. At least someone else noticed how the suit gives its wearer the sculpted ass of an Olympian athlete, eh?**

**I dunno, maybe I just have high standards.**

* * *

**(Sangvis Ferri Research Facility)**

Pain. I wake up feeling like pain.

I can barely think straight, I hurt so bad. It feels like I've been stepped on by a Pinger. No, worse – like I've stepped on a Lego. Can't see jack shit, either; wherever I am, it's pitch-black.

Okay, brain. Stop throbbing for a moment and do your job. What the hell just happened?

Several seconds spent in agonized silence pass while my dazed, brain-shaped CPU slowly reboots itself. Let's see… I was climbing up an elevator shaft to escape from… wherever this place is. Then a real charmer of a Tactical Doll with an apparent taste for pre-Industrial Age weaponry showed up before cutting the wire holding me aloft. I remember falling, something about Prophet, and then…

My mind's scrounging for answers and coming up empty. Then again, it's difficult to focus when your body is screaming at you that it's taken a beating and needs to be attended to. Moreso when the pain's so severe you can't even move.

I wish Colonel Barclay was here. He never cared about how much of a monster the suit made me into; he still saw me for what I am at my core, a dedicated marine, and generously gave me productive suicide missions to help keep my mind off of my ghastly physiology. Far and away the best brass I ever served under just for that. The man stared down a Ceph army and lived; he'd know how to handle a few slutty robots.

Hell, I'd take Nathan Gould if he could offer up a theory as to why my body is mysteriously intact again. He worked half his life for Jack Hargreave – a man whose research regularly skirted the lines separating man from machine and life from death – so he must know _something_ about my condition, right? I'd be willing to put my lingering resentment of him aside if it meant I could get an answer.

Note to self: Find Gould after I deal with however many Sangvis scientists might've escaped.

_"__I gave you the suit… gave you my life. Promise me: FIND GOULD! It's all I can do now; _you're _all I can do…"_

Prophet's mournful visage burns itself into my retinas before vanishing as quickly as it appears. Ugghhh, my aching head…

So I _wasn't _just imagining things when I heard Barnes' voice before. But if that's the case, if he still exists in my head, why didn't he retake control of the body while I was knocked out? Was I wrong to assume he's still kicking around in there? Or have our circumstances switched, and there's not enough left of him to take an active role? Jesus, this is making me frustrated. At least his AI counterpart is around to-

Wait. Wait wait wait wait waaaaiiiiit just a goddamn second.

I choke out a startled gasp and sit up straight.

I suddenly recall the other voice in my head, as well as the words it'd spoken before I passed out. I also become distinctly aware that the pulsing aches in my body have lessened significantly over the last minute. Then I factor in the earlier displays of inhuman strength, the increased speed, the nano-weave lurking within me… hell, I'd just survived a fall from six stories. A normal person would've been a tenderized mess of red at this point.

Could it be that…? No, that isn't possible. Then again, most of the plights I'd experienced in recent memory were things not normally deemed possible…

Hope and fear gnawing at my racing heart, I raise my left arm to my field of vision and trigger the mental command I so often use when bracing myself for a world of hurt.

"_MAXIMUM ARMOR._"

And sure enough, it happens.

Dozens of tiny transparent hexagons stir to life in the corners of my vision. Glowing blue tendrils of energy shimmer into existence across the length of my arm and beyond, stretching to encompass my torso, legs, and opposite arm. Like a small child on a sugar rush, the glow refuses to stay in place; it shifts and weaves under my skin, leaving a faint luminescent trail behind when it moves. It's as though someone had injected a volatile mix of blue neon and performance-enhancing drugs into my bloodstream.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. I don't know whether to think this is the absolute coolest thing ever or be worried that it's essencially ripped straight from a sci-fi horror movie.

After a few seconds of awestruck wonder tempered by sheer apprehension, I experimentally rap my knuckles against my forearm and feel no surprise at all when I meet resistance from solid rock instead of normal flesh. Tightening my hand into a fist causes the azure veins to pulse rhythmically with my heartbeat.

Somehow, despite being completely butt naked (I really need to get that fixed sometime soon), I have access to Nanosuit 2.0's integrated Armor Mode again. No doubts about it now: I'm definitely not a normal human anymore, though it's a toss-up on how involved Sangvis Ferri was with this change. Whether they had nothing or everything to do with it, however, one thing's abundantly clear – I won't get any closer to finding answers by sitting around in this elevator shaft.

Still not sure how to feel about this discovery, I will the protective coating away, watching with keen interest as the honeycomb pattern recedes and soon disappears, followed after by the frolicking lights under my skin. I have no idea how or why I'm able to suddenly use armor mode again… although if it gives me a higher chance to survive a direct dustup with my new enemies, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I search for my pistol next. My hands fumble in the darkness for a while, looking for any sign of the weapon's silhouette, but my effort is in vain. An unorthodox idea soon pops into my head: I activate armor mode once more, using the strange glow circulating through my body for illumination. Genius, I know. It doesn't take long to find it afterwards.

When I pick it up, I can't stop myself from uttering a small, "Aw, _fuck_…"

There's a massive crack running along the left side of the Nova's slide, big enough that pulling it back in its current condition posed a high risk of breaking it entirely. Almost as bad is the magazine, or lack thereof. It seemed the mag release had somehow been triggered from the fall; a cursory glance around the top of the elevator reveals several discarded bullets along with the empty magazine itself. _Dammit._ There goes my only form of offense.

R.I.P. M12 Nova: I barely knew ye.

Sighing in regret over the loss of my handgun, I work the emergency hatch open again and drop back into the elevator proper, allowing my (un)natural body armor to cushion the landing before dispelling it. I wonder if I can keep it on indefinitely, or if it runs on a time limit like the suit's version. I can't tell without a Brain-Up Display.

I've barely taken three steps away from the broken lift to resume my life as a nomad when my ears pick up a distant sound: an avalanche of metal stomping against metal, drawing closer and closer with each passing second.

A high-pitched voice puts any hope of something good arriving to rest. "Executioner said he's near the elevator! Get a move on, you heaps of scrap – we can't let him escape!"

The Sangvis Dolls – they've found me! Although they aren't in my line of sight yet, I reckon that will change very soon.

To make matters worse, the closest hallway I can escape through is ahead to my left, too far away for me to reach without running. There's little doubt in my mind they wouldn't hear my footfalls and chase after me again, and armor or no, I am _seriously _not in the mood for another game of cat and mouse. I don't even have a weapon this time! How will I fight back?

I grate my teeth together. Come on, Alcatraz, _think_! There has to be another way out of this!

Cue the light bulb of inspiration.

If I'm able to use the Nanosuit's armor mode again… then what are the odds I can use the _other _of its two main tactical functions as well?

The footsteps are increasing in volume; it sounds like Jailbait Bitch's unit is fast approaching from further up to the right. Out of time and with no other options, I mentally nudge whichever part of my brain linked to Stealth Mode into activating.

"_CLOAK ENGAGED._"

False Prophet's gravelly voice finishes the announcement a literal half second before the petite Doll and her crew come into view. She marches in my direction with a deep scowl etched on her childlike face, although she seemingly fails to acknowledge my presence… which can only mean one thing…

I look down and see that my naked body has become almost ghostly in appearance. Each movement is perfectly tuned to blend in with the surrounding environment, leaving only the barest distortions in their wake, like a chameleon or octopus when they camouflage themselves. Anyone looking at me from a distance would probably mistake it as a mere trick of the light.

Gotta admit, I'm beginning to find my abnormalities more convenient than worrisome by this point.

Flattening myself against the left wall, I inch my way forward, never letting my eyes leave the Dolls as Jailbait Bitch signals her squad to halt about six feet away from the open doors. All of them obey with a rigid discipline that only machines are capable of, keeping their SMGs raised while their leader goes to investigate the elevator's interior.

Shuffling past this group of armed and hostile androids has to be one of the most nerve-wracking things I've ever done. My footsteps and my breaths are both kept noiseless. One of the Dolls is only a couple of inches away from me – I could headbutt her if I really want to. However, flight beats fight in the end, and even with the Nanosuit's reactivated powers at my disposal, I don't fancy my chances in a fifteen-against-one, close-quarters melee.

"You there!"

I freeze. My eyes dart back to the elevator, fearing the little white-haired girl has somehow spotted me through my cloak. If she did, then I'm ready to-

"I need you to give me a boost!" the Doll exclaims, pointing a finger at her closest lackey. She looks pretty pissed off for some reason. "I can't reach the emergency hatch!"

The lead Ripper nods once in affirmation and breaks away from the guard formation to assist her height-impaired superior.

Fighting back the urge to snicker is difficult, though I do allow a dopey smile to creep onto my face while I resume my stealthy getaway. I'll take cheap entertainment when I can get it. Heh heh… midget.

…Done. I've successfully slipped behind the Sangvis patrol and am in the clear.

_Phew._

Heaving a huge mental sigh of relief, I tiptoe further down the corridor. I almost make it to cover in the next hallway when I pick up some interesting conversation happening behind me:

"Executioner!" I hear the diminutive girl whine, apparently having finished up her search. "Why did you cut the cable?! Now how am I supposed to get out of here?"

"_Our target tried to escape by climbing up the elevator shaft, Destroyer. I couldn't risk him making it out,"_ the voice of the Doll I'd seriously considered labeling 'BDSM Bitch' replies smoothly.

I scoff internally as I slide behind the corner. What a crock of horseshit. She and I both know she could've just shot me a few times and been done with it without any of the theatrics. I peek back around, keeping my cloak up, watching as the automaton now identified as Destroyer converses over real-time holographic video feed (_Whoa, that's neat_) with her partner in crime.

"You're lucky he's not dead, you know. I checked all over and he's not there anymore. What would Scarecrow say if we ended up bringing her his corpse?"

_"I wouldn't worry about that. He's far more durable than he looks." _Executioner's anticipatory smile doesn't bode well for me._ "And if what Master says is true, he's not even 'alive' by typical human standards anyway. I'm taking that as an excuse to use more… _extreme_ methods to subdue him, should he continue to resist. Oh, I'd relish the chance to fight him, oh yes I would…"_

"…You're crazy." Destroyer says flatly.

I agree.

"So what am I supposed to do after I capture him, huh?" the white-haired automaton continues. "I get cutting off his escape route – _literally_ – but now you've gone and trapped _me_ in here, too!"

_"Look on the bright side. Technically, our quarry is the one trapped in there with you."_

"Executioner!"

_"Fine, fine." _The other Doll lets out a resigned sigh. _"I'll contact Scarecrow. Give me a second."_

I hide back behind the wall and disengage cloak to let it recharge (like armor mode, I'm not sure how long it'll last – I'm running off the default timer of about thirty seconds). I briefly contemplate what I've learned as my naked form becomes visible to naked eyes again.

I fathom that the elevator must've been the primary way in and out of here, a notion reinforced by the fact that I still haven't seen a wall sign pointing me towards an emergency staircase. What kind of multi-story structure doesn't come with friggin' stairs, anyway? What if a fire broke out? Am I giving Sangvis Ferri too much credit, or were they just _that _confident in their safety features?

Eh, not my problem. Best to keep eavesdropping and see what else I can uncover.

_"Ah, Destroyer, Executioner. You have news, I take it?" _a familiar voice suddenly speaks up. Re-engaging cloak, I spy on the Dolls once more, this time seeing Sith Bitch's masked visage on a separate holographic screen.

"You're darn right I have news!" Destroyer huffs. "Your partner broke the elevator! How do we get out after the target is secured?"

Sith Bi- _Scarecrow_, damn, I've already gotten used to my nickname for her – regards her fellow android with a decidedly chilly expression. _"So the human filth is still running free, I presume?" _she inquires in a low, dangerous tone.

Destroyer's composure briefly falters. "M-Maybe… Okay, yes! But not for much longer! He couldn't have gone far in the time it took to get here." Although it could be an act, each word of assurance to her superior seems to restore a bit of the Doll's confidence. "Oh, and his sidearm's been damaged, too. He'll be contained within the hour! That nudist pest has no hope of beating me in a fight!"

It's not like I'm _choosing_ not to wear clothes, for chrissake!

The apparent leader of the Doll trio, for her part, remains unmoved. _"I'd hope your assessment is correct. My calculations indicate the loss of the target's weapon grants you a 35% higher chance of a successful capture. However, I must warn you this chance will decrease by 1% for every minute he eludes us. We're dealing with the same man who defeated the Ceph – you'd be wise to not forget that."_

_"That's Scarecrow speak for 'get a move on, you bucket of bolts'," _Executioner chips in.

I see Destroyer's small fists clench. "I'll get to it, but only as soon as someone answers my original question! Where do I go once he's back on ice?!"

_"Watch your tone, Destroyer. The stakes in this mission are too high for any of us to regress to needless bickering." _Scarecrow says evenly. _"Though since you're so insistent, and I suppose your inquiry will be relevant later, I'll find you a solution." _The rogue machine goes quiet for several seconds; I take the brief lapse in conversation to recharge my cloak again. _"…Here we are. There's a maintenance tunnel in the B5 security wing that connects to the facility's sewage system. The wing's under lockdown, however, and it can only be lifted from a terminal in a nearby control room. I'm uploading the coordinates to your locator now."_

The look of sheer disgust on Destroyer's face speaks volumes. "Eww, the sewer?! I'll have to drag his containment cell through _poo water_?!" At Executioner's sudden burst of laughter, she starts shouting, "This is all your fault, you hedge clipper-wielding bimbo! You're the one who thought it would be funny to cut the- Wait, did you know this would happen?!"

Executioner only laughs harder.

"You did, didn't you?! Arrrrggghhhh! I hate you, Executioner! Honestly, how does Scarecrow put up with you? Even Dreamer isn't this tasteless, and she once tricked me into eating a-!"

She says more, but by now I'm too far down the hall to make out the rest of it. I've learned all I need to put my grand escape into motion...

* * *

**(Ten Minutes Later)**

I fucked up.

The funny thing about making an escape plan? It's not enough to simply know what you have to do; you also need some semblance of where to _go_ in order to actually make it happen. Scarecrow said the control room wasn't far, so my plan was to find it first, override the lockdown, navigate to and through the security wing, then disappear into the facility's underbelly where the rogue Dolls have next to no hope of capturing me before I make it outside. Simple, right? As long as I moved quickly and made liberal use of my cloak, it should've been easy.

Except I'd taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque and gotten myself lost. My mind wandered away for two seconds, literally _two fucking seconds _to wonder why I was able to use the Nanosuit's abilities, and the next thing I know I'm back to being a rat in a maze. I'd wanted to punch the wall in my frustration. Definitely tempting, and the only reason I don't do so is because the resulting echo would give me away to any patrolling Sangvis units.

The worse news? I'd almost forgotten that the security wing was sealed off for a reason. The egghead's journal mentioned how the area was quarantined after the Dolls began their rebellion, and it's not unlikely for them to still be in there. Hell, knowing my luck, they're probably still functioning even after all this time.

I've taken refuge in a small, inconspicuous office to catch a breather and plan my next move. Even by creepy abandoned facility standards, the place is a mess – binders and research folders litter the floor courtesy of an overturned filing cabinet, spilling their contents every which way. I don't have the time or patience to read any of the papers and I severely doubt they would've helped anyway. The desk, keyboard, and even the defunct monitor itself are marred by old coffee stains.

No weapons, though I do find a stick of sugar-free gum hidden in one of the desk drawers. It isn't much, but it's edible, so I scarf it down greedily.

Peppermint. Not bad.

Taking a seat in the rickety office chair (which also has coffee stains, I should add), I give some serious thought to my situation.

A direct confrontation with Sangvis Ferri is looking more and more inevitable by this point. I haven't a clue what type of nasty surprises could be waiting for me in the security wing; whether it's more Dolls or some other type of automated defense system, one thing is for certain – I need a weapon. Something with more punch than my bare hands, pun not intended. A rifle, a submachine gun. A trashy vampire romance novel. Those are lethal, right?

Unfortunately, the odds of me finding something suitable in the research department are next to nil. The Nova was a godsend, but it's gone now. Unless I get lucky and stumble across a weaponized paddleball program, my options are very limited.

My eyes settle on a stapler. Hmm. If I could beat a CELL trooper to death with a teddy bear, then maybe…? Nah. I'm not _that _desperate. Not yet, anyway.

I groan restlessly, spinning the chair in circles a few times before rising to my feet. Looks like I have no other choice. There's an obvious solution to my dilemma, though it's risky as hell and will make the target on my back that much bigger, not to mention give away my location.

I don't have any weapons on hand… but I know a certain Doll squad that _does_.

An ambush. That's my best shot. It's a fool's gambit; a dangerous, dumb idea with an extremely narrow chance of success that depends on me setting it up perfectly. One mistake and I would soon find myself back in the cryo-pod. Or worse, dead… inasmuch as a man whose organs were harvested to sustain a hyper-advanced suit of combat armor could be considered 'dead'. Or I _thought _my organs were harvested. How does my body do that weird regenerative thingy, anyway?

Ugh, not now, soldier. You can have an existential crisis later; start focusing on how you're going to take down fifteen Dolls without getting your ass handed to you on a silver platter.

I stare down at my naked form, frowning in contemplation.

More and more pieces slowly click into place as I dwell on all the mysterious happenings to my body since I first woke up. My increased strength and stamina. The rapid healing from a glancing injury. The nano-weave. Cloak and armor modes working again. False Prophet's voice in my head.

That one's the real kicker. All the other stuff can be handwaved as the byproduct of Sangvis Ferri's mad science; the AI, on the other hand, has absolutely no reason to still be around. It, and SECOND by extension, are an integral component of the Nanosuit's systems. Without the Semiautonomous Enhanced Combat Ops: Neuro-Integration Delivery AI, the suit's not much more than a butt-ugly evolution of Kevlar.

Plus, well, I know for a damn fact that it integrated itself directly into my nervous system. I'm skeptical that even the suit's creators would have the technical know-how to undo the symbiosis – and the online journal made it clear this Sangvis corporation doesn't normally work with Nanosuits. Or if they do, then I'm a particularly unique case.

All the signs point to one conclusion. It's almost too crazy even for me to believe, but I can't come up with any other explanation.

The reason I haven't been able to find the CryNet Nanosuit 2.0, the most powerful piece of combat hardware on the planet, is because _I'm still wearing it_.

My boring, naked, flesh-and-blood human form? All an illusion created by the parasitic exoskeleton. That or it completely finished absorbing itself into what's left of my corpse, creating a perfect, deadly hybrid of man and machine. Hell, there might not even be a difference at all.

Still standing in the center of an office packed with clutter, I wonder if the illusion can be broken. Giving one last look at the man I thought I was, I mentally prepare myself, take a deep, calming breath, and concentrate with all my effort.

What happens next, I don't think I'll ever know if it marked the beginning of my salvation or damnation.

Gunmetal gray CryFibril almost seems to _grow _out of me, seeping up to the surface of my skin and spreading to envelop my whole body. The artificial tendons stretch, expand, link with one other until every trace of my normally sun-kissed skin is buried under a layer of protective nano-weave. The muscles' growth is interrupted at various points by a skeleton of gleaming silver encompassing my knuckles and other joints. Even my crotch disappears under the sudden swathe of high-tech coating, something I'm secretly thankful for. I don't need anyone, Doll or otherwise, to see the outline of my- Hold on a sec.

I spin my head around, peeking down at my rear where the nano-weave is still finishing up hiding it from view.

_Goddamn suit really DOES make my butt bigger! _I shout in my mind.

A small sacrifice to pay, I guess, although one I staunchly refuse to believe is necessary.

It also doesn't escape my notice that the whole outer transformation is eerily similar to how what's-his-face, _Eddie Brock_ morphs into Venom. We're exactly alike, in a way: both our bodies have been fused to an alien parasite with an affection for the color black. Only difference is that my version is even _more _stingy about the idea of removal.

Also, Venom doesn't have a nozzle shoved up his bumhole.

My vision momentarily goes red, then polarizes, followed shortly after by a suite of tactical data springing to life over the surface of my eyeballs. Everything is exactly how I remember it, from the segmented bar displaying the suit's energy reserves in the bottom right corner to the BUD's seafoam color palette, all the way down to the saccadic icons that light up when my eyes roam over them. A wall of text and technical jargon briefly whizzes by faster than I can process before suddenly vanishing.

The change is nearly complete when another line of text appears near the top of my FOV:

_"Nanosuit 2.0 online. Updating local geographic coordinates." _A minimap blinks into existence on the opposite corner of the energy readings. To be honest, I totally forgot about it.

I flex an arm, watching the black muscle mass slide and adjust itself in tandem with the movement. I feel good – better than ever, even. But more than that, for the first time in forever, I feel _powerful_. In that moment, I'm no longer Sergeant James Carlos Rodriguez, the unassuming quasi-human with no course of action. Now I'm Alcatraz; I'm fucking _Golem Boy_. I am the armored, hyper-lethal, ass-kicking Nanosuit warrior forged in the midst of a desperate struggle to save mankind from utter annihilation. CELL threw everything in their arsenal my way in their efforts to kill me and failed. Even the Ceph, the closest thing akin to gods ever witnessed by humanity, couldn't stop me from cleansing New York of their hives when I put my mind to it.

And if the terrifying might of extragalactic machine gods wasn't enough to keep me down (my insight on the Earth Ceph being mere tools in reality notwithstanding), then a few rogue androids manufactured on this ball of dirt don't stand a hope in hell of doing the same.

While I'm enraptured by my glorious reunion with the suit and the pleasurable feeling of power it gives, SECOND is busy doing… whatever it does to gather information from my surroundings. It soon breaks me from my stupor to helpfully remind me that I'm not exactly in the best of positions.

**Primary: **Escape the Facility: Disable Security Wing Lockdown

How generous of the AI to organize my objectives for me. Hmm... I wonder if it also overheard the talk between the Sangvis Ferri leaders. No matter the case, it's right – I have unfinished business to attend to.

I entered the office a seemingly normal human and exit a monster. BUD drops a waypoint 58 meters down the hall to the right; not the clearest directions in this labyrinth, but I can make do with it. And if I happen to run into Destroyer and her team again… heh. Regardless of how it plays out, she and her cronies would be in for one hell of a nasty encounter.

No more running. Time to fight back.

* * *

The trek to the control room is uneventful. I keep an eye on my minimap for the duration of the walk, prepared to cloak the moment I see red arrows, though none ever come.

I pass the time it takes to get there by contemplating how I feel like a human wearing a suit and not just… well, a walking suit. I can do things like blink and open my mouth, which shouldn't be possible if my skin and the suit's outer layer are one and the same. It almost feels like… I don't know. Like the suit somehow pushed its way to the surface, if that makes any sense.

Is there anything left of the body I was born with in there? Has the suit really merged into _me _and not the other way around? Ugh, this is why I never researched the details of hardcore sci-fi. Too damn confusing.

…Wait, does this mean Prophet also piloted my human self when he was the dominant host? The thought of him mimicking my appearance makes me more than a little uncomfortable.

Aaaand I overshot my destination. I double back and slip inside the room, unsure whether to feel more embarrassed at myself or glad that no one was around to see my blunder. Yeah, okay, no. I decide then and there to put all further speculation on hold until I'm outside the facility. Outside, as well as a very long distance away from both it and Sangvis Ferri.

Just like Force Recon ops, except not.

If I thought the office I'd transformed in was a mess, the B5 control room looks as though a tornado had swept through. There are so many wires crisscrossing the floor and plugged into haphazardly placed socket strips that I can't help questioning what the safety standards in this place were. Large screens are mounted on all four walls, displaying static that bathes the average-sized space in a dim, unwelcoming light. The rest of the room is crammed with computer monitors, some lit, some not. It would've taken ages to find the right one if the waypoint hadn't settled over a specific terminal to my right.

Luckily for me, it boots up without a fight. One minute of waiting and another quick password crack later ("12345" …I have no comment about that), I've finally found the override frequency for the security wing.

My brow furrows under my visor when I go to input the code. Strange… according to the logs, the lockdown was disabled not too long ago, then somehow reactivated shorty after. Definitely peculiar, though it isn't something I can spare much thought on at the moment. Could've just been a glitch in the system.

Then, as if on cue, I'm nearly floored by another splitting headache.

"Oh come on, are you fucking _serious_…?" I groan in dismay.

This one isn't as painful as the others before it, but that's like saying a concussion hurts less than a skull fracture. It's still debilitating no matter what. I fall to my knees, clutching my hands over my armored head, and mentally brace myself for whatever whacked hallucination is in store for me.

Except nothing comes.

The pain recedes to a dull ache. I stagger back to my feet, unsure of what just happened. What the hell was _that _all about? What, did the flashback decide to just give up and fizzle out before I could see it?

_"You might as well be a fucking machine, because you sure as hell ain't no human being anymore!"_

A male's voice, laced with a British accent suddenly echoes all around me I rapidly dart my eyes around the room in search of the source. My muscles tense. The static on the monitors – it's all gone, replaced by high-def video feeds of a bald, stocky man wearing jungle combat gear.

Even without knowing him personally, I instantly recognize his face somehow. Sergeant Michael Sykes. _Psycho_.

_"I mean, you never were much good at it to begin with, but Jesus Christ, LOOK AT YOU NOW!" _Raptor Team's marksman jabs a finger at the camera. With each of the monitors displaying the feed, it comes across as numerous copies of the same man all pointing at me. Accusing me.

_Condemning _me.

_"Whose face are you wearing under that helmet these days, Prophet?" _Psycho demands. _"Do you even HAVE a face anymore?"_

Something in my gut lurches.

_"…We all had to make sacrifices."_

It was Prophet who spoke that time. His answer was said in a tone that could've ranged anywhere from dismissive to remorseful; it's never easy to tell with the aloof Major.

Psycho, for his part, doesn't seem moved. _"You had a choice, mate. EVERYONE has a choice!"_

The monitors suddenly freeze, giving me a few brief seconds to stare at the outrage seething in Michael Sykes' expression, before the images revert back to screen static. The ache in the back of my mind gradually fades as well.

Ahem. That was… different.

"At least _somebody _noticed I was gone," I sigh out loud, leaving the haunted control room behind.

* * *

**Primary: **Escape the Facility: Stage an Ambush

_"TACTICAL OPTIONS AVAILABLE."_

"Yeah, yeah, whatever…"

I pull up the Nanosuit's integrated tactical locator anyway to see what my AI companion is suggesting. Still no sign of Destroyer's goon squad, and the corridor I'm presently working my way through doesn't appear unique in any way compared to all the others, so I'm a bit curious to know what made False Prophet speak up.

With the lockdown disengaged, all that's left for me to do before my trek to the potentially (scratch that – _assuredly_) dangerous security wing is get myself a proper weapon. I'd spent the past ten minutes thinking of different ways to ambush the Dolls' hunting party without getting maimed or captured – which, as of now, totals a big fat zero. Suit or no suit, fifteen against one is a steep uphill battle.

Perhaps that's about to change.

The first option directs me to a darkened room a few meters down the hall to the right. Rather amusingly, the suggested course of action above the nav marker is labeled 'Jumpscare'.

As much fun as bursting out of the room yelling "HEEEEERE'S ALKY!" and scaring the artificial daylights out of Destroyer sounds, I have to shelve the idea for now. I'll fall back on it as a Plan B if the other method somehow proves even less viable.

Option two, located ahead and to my left beyond my field of vision, simply says 'Lure'. I go to check it out, silently praying that it won't involve hiding in a garbage can like Oscar the goddamn Grouch or something equally ludicrous.

The waypoint leads me to a large set of double doors – and by a stroke of divine fortune, a mess hall beyond that.

My reformed stomach gurgles happily.

"Heh. About time…" I smile from ear to ear.

The layout reminds me of the cafeteria from my old high school. Roughly the same size, too. Rows of long stainless-steel tables and benches dominate the center space, surrounded by smaller, round tables also made of metal. I see a few dirty plates sitting here and there, the food on them having long since rotted away. Three serving windows are positioned in the back of the room, flanked by another set of doors to the left – which I presume lead to the kitchen – and a pair of vending machines to the right.

Eyeing the vending machines with a hungry gaze, I mentally will the Nanosuit away. Can't eat with a helmet blocking my face, can I?

The BUD is the first thing to recede, blinking out of existence like I'd thrown a switch. The visor's next, followed by the exoskeleton, joint coverings, and finally the nano-weave. All of it sinks back into my body until I return to the way I started: an imitation of a regular human being, totally uninteresting at a glance if you don't factor in my nudity.

I can toggle it back and forth whenever I want…? Cool beans.

After working my magic on the vending machines to net myself some free goodies (and no, I do _not _almost panic when my hand gets stuck), I spend a few minutes seated at a table, mulling over the next phase of my plan while sipping on a warm can of ill-gotten soda. Regrettably, I'd failed to foresee in my shortsightedness just how stale the bag of crackers I'd snagged along with it would be, and it almost cost me. I nearly lost a tooth biting into one, they were so damn hard.

I carefully observe the deserted chow hall, crushing the empty can in my grip and tossing it over my shoulder.

This could work. It's a fairly open space with a lot of room to maneuver around, plus the tables could be used as makeshift cover if needed. Even better is my access to the kitchen; if there's one thing I learned from Alice's cooking shows, it's that kitchens always come with fuckloads of sharp, blunt, and sometimes toxic goodies. And there's only one way in and out of here, meaning I know which direction the Dolls will have to come from… which in turn means I can herd them into a trap.

"Hmm…" I nod slowly, the wheels in my brain beginning to turn. If I play my cards right, then yes, this could definitely work.

Letting out a hearty, satisfied belch, I get up and make my way to the kitchen doors, eager to get the stage set up for Operation Smack-a-Bitch.

* * *

**(Twenty Minutes Later)**

This'll have to do, I decide, brushing imaginary dust off my hands as I survey the soon-to-be battlefield.

Everything is set up perfectly: I'd overturned several tables and benches to face the double doors, stockpiling all the useful stuff I could find behind them. The doors themselves are parted just enough to balance a crude trap placed on top; if that doesn't work, then the other surprise I'd slathered around the floor would. I'd also moved one of the vending machines over near the entrance as a little extra insurance.

The second machine is positioned close to the remaining tables I'd lumped together into a teetering pile. I could still use them as throwing weapons if the need arises, damaged or not.

It's in front of the second vending machine that I now stand motionless, back in the Nanosuit and holding a frying pan in each armored hand.

This is it. There will be no turning back once I kickstart this stupid idea. I'd survived up to this point by avoiding the Dolls, but now I'm basically about to scream my location to them, and chances are good I'd be up to my neck in dustups from here on out. Assuming my plan even works, that is.

After taking a moment to savor this last fleeting moment of peace, I exhale a slow, steady breath, put on my big boy pants, and don't look back. Showtime.

_"MAXIMUM POWER."_

I start by kicking the vending machine into the heap of tables; the red light coursing over the N2's skin signals the vastly increased muscle mass I've suddenly gained that gives me the strength to pull off such a feat. The crash is deafening: Tables fly in all directions, banging off walls and such, while the vending machine simply _keeps going _and ends up smashing into one of the serving windows.

Whoops. Good thing no employees are around to yell at me.

I run around the cafeteria acting like a toddler throwing a tantrum, kicking away stray tables, smacking cans and breaking glass bottles with my frying pans, bellowing like a rogue elephant at the top of my lungs… anything and everything I can do to make a huge racket. The suit's tracking visor stays active the whole time, scanning for any signs of hostile movement coming my way. Nothing so far, but that could change at any second.

Most of the spare tables are reduced to twisted piles of scrap after a couple of minutes at the receiving end of my boot. When I run out of stuff to break, I resort to banging the pans above my head over and over again, still running laps around the now half-demolished room.

Then, just for the hell of it, I begin singing in rhythm with the noise:

"WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF DA POLICE! WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF THE BEAST! WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF DA POLICE! WOOP-WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF THE BEAST!"

If my dazzling one-cyborg cover of KSR-One's hit single doesn't make the girls come flocking to me, I didn't know what will.

I continue to run in circles a while longer, repeating the verse since I can't remember how the rest of the lyrics go – which, to be fair, I don't think anyone does. My visor vigilantly scans for Sangvis Ferri the whole time. Truth be told, I'm getting antsy. What if they're someplace far enough away that they can't hear me? If they aren't, then how would they react to my obvious attempt to use myself as bait?

Perhaps I haven't thought this through completely. The plan sounded good in my head, but now I'm having doubts. Those androids can't possibly be dumb enough to not see through my transparent-

Oh, look, there are fifteen upside-down triangles headed my way. One of them is significantly lower to the ground than the others. Guess I lucked out… if 'luck' is the right word, which it probably isn't.

Abandoning my performance, I slip into cloak and hide behind the remaining vending machine, peeking around it to watch whatever happens next.

"That idiot streaker went and gave himself away! He's gotta be behind those doors!" shouts an annoyingly familiar voice.

I resist the urge to facepalm. Great, now I've got a reputation as a streaker. At least it's a Sangvis Doll who labeled me that – something I'm about to beat into scrap metal anyway, and whose opinion I honestly couldn't care less about.

"Your days of running away and hiding like a coward are over, streaker!" I hear Destroyer gloat as her and her team's footfalls grow closer. "When I get my hands on you, you're gonna wish you never crossed-!"

She barges through the doors mid-speech.

Several things happen at once after that.

_CLANG!_

"Ack! Who turned off the lights?!" she wails.

The massive stew pot I'd put up top somehow managed to land directly over her head, creating the hilarious sight of a childlike Doll stumbling around with only her launchers and mechanical legs visible. Even more amusing, and what almost makes me burst out laughing, is when she ends up slipping on the cooking oil coating the floor and crashes down like a ton of bricks.

Her minions don't fare much better. The three Rippers closest behind their leader also hit the ground, stunning them, while the rest halt at the doorway looking like they have no damn clue what to do. They've effectively bottled themselves into a chokepoint – exactly what I wanted.

"SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKERS!" I bellow in greeting. Nanosuit 2 glowing crimson as raw strength floods to my legs, I effortlessly kick the vending machine across the space separating me from the Dolls, grinning in satisfaction when they scatter like bowling pins from the stellar impact.

One is still standing, though a brief redirection of power to my arms followed by the _smack _of a frying pan hitting her face at seventy miles per hour fixes that problem.

Noticing how the three who'd slipped are steadily getting back to their feet, I chuck my remaining pan at one of them, knocking her back on her synthetic ass, before cloaking and making a mad dash behind an adjacent bench for cover. I pick up a large kitchen knife from the small pile stashed behind it, holding it in between my thumb and index finger to get a feel for its weight while SECOND pumps targeting algorithms into my skull. Once I'm confident I won't miss, I decloak to save energy, rise up, and throw it at the nearest Doll. The knife buries itself to the hilt between her eyes.

Three more quickly fall under a hail of improvised throwing knives. Finally catching on that they're legitimately under attack, the Dolls who've recovered enough to stand strike back, their SMGs firing sprays of energy bolts at the metal shielding me.

"Dammit!" I swear, ducking back into cover. I can feel my makeshift barrier melting away in the heat even through the Nanosuit's insulated outer layer. Grabbing two more knives to bring with me, I cloak again and dart to the nearest table, then renew my assault with a fresh batch of cutlery.

It's worth mentioning that Destroyer is still struggling with the stew pot, rolling around on the floor and screeching obscenities at me.

"What's going on?! I can't see! Someone help me out of this thing! Grrr… You're going to die, you nudist sack of trash! Do you hear me?! DIE! When I get out of here, I'm bringing you back to Scarecrow in pieces, consequences be damned! I don't care what my orders are anymore! AAAARRRGGGHH! WOULD SOMEBODY KILL HIM AND HELP ME ALREADY?!"

Jeez, for such a small Doll, she has a real set of pipes on her. She and I should sing a duet sometime.

Sangvis and I continue trading shots at one another. I cloak and move each time I run low on knives or feel my cover is compromised. For all their so-called superiority, the androids can't seem to predict where I'll strike from next, and by the time I reach the last intact table, their numbers have been reduced from fifteen down to seven. Puzzlingly, the Rippers never make an effort to find cover of their own, or even move away from the kill zone. I wager they only accept orders from Destroyer; with their leader currently incapacitated, they're essentially boxing themselves in with their lack of free will. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

One apparently has a flash of genius and tries to dodge the knife spinning toward her throat. She succeeds… mostly. The sharp projectile grazes her arm as she flings herself aside, spilling… Oh my god, is that _blood_?

Now that I notice it, there is a fairly sizable amount of crimson liquid pooling around the slain Dolls. It's leaking from their injuries exactly like it would from a human. The hell? How can androids _bleed_? Are Tactical Dolls not as mechanical as I'd thought?

Feeling a bit queasy all of a sudden, I have SECOND run a quick analysis of the blood.

…Oh. It's literally just coolant with red food coloring mixed in. I have to hand it to Sangvis Ferri's manufacturers – when it comes to lifelike detail, they sure didn't cut any corners.

When my last impromptu projectile lodges itself right where a human's heart would be, I cloak one last time and rush toward the second fallen vending machine. Easily mantling over it, I switch out invisibility for strength; a moment later, two of the remaining Dolls are crushed between the wall and a quarter ton of steel and expired snack foods. The four that are left douse me in a shower of violet gunfire, forcing me to swap to armor mode and tank the damage while I search around for more cover.

Even with the extra protection, it fucking _stings_. I've taken innumerable hits from plenty of weapons before, both Ceph and human made, but that doesn't mean I _like_ getting shot. Hit something hard enough and it'll eventually break.

My eardrums rattle with each heavy footfall. It sounds like a small earthquake is triggered with every step I take. My eyes sweep over the trashed mess hall as I lumber over to a half-melted table, darting back to check on my energy reserves every half second. No solid cover left, but the table is only ten feet away, and it should hold long enough for the suit to recharge. Or so I hope. Swapping from cloak to power and now armor mode in rapid succession without rest, not to mention all the running around and the damage I'm soaking up, is putting a serious strain on the Nanosuit's supply.

Two bars of energy left. One bar. I can make it-!

Nope.

"Ow, _shit_!" I hiss when the pain in my body suddenly multiplies tenfold. I'm all out of juice.

I don't so much slide into cover as clumsily fall behind it. Already the table is beginning to glow hot, Sangvis Ferri's sustained firepower eating through it at a rate that will leave me exposed in less than ten seconds. The Nanosuit is already recharging – thank goodness it's a speedy process – though I estimate I'll only get half my reserves back by the time my barrier against the Dolls is melted into slag.

No other choice, then. Time to initiate Phase II of my battle plan.

I unclip the ingredients to my secret weapon from where a pistol would usually rest on the suit's thigh. A bomb; one I'd cobbled together using an empty plastic bottle and some wrapping foil from the kitchen.

The Dolls' barrage isn't slowing down. There are gaps in the table big enough for me to stick my head through. Swearing again when a bolt hits my shoulder, I summon my armor once more to shield me from their assault (and partially in case the bomb prematurely detonates in my face) using what little energy I've recovered. Pouring in the final ingredient – drain cleaner – I screw the cap on, give it a good shake, then toss it in my attackers' direction, ducking back behind the scraps of table left over before I can bear witness to the explosion.

A short _boom _echoes through the mess hall, followed by a moment of blissful silence.

Did I stun them? Kill them? Are Dolls even affected by toxic chemicals? Why the hell should I care? They aren't shooting at me anymore, and that's all that matters.

"What was that explosion just now?! That sounded too close for comfort!" Destroyer's tinny voice shatters the peace. "Almost out of here… Just gotta wiggle around a little bit more, then I'll show you useless scrap heaps how a _real _Doll fights!"

Dammit, I was really hoping the blast would shut her up. I need to finish this before she frees herself, otherwise the scales could tip back in her favor. Stupid Plan Phase II is now clear to proceed.

Phase II is a lot like Phase I, except it involves less throwing stuff and more punching things. I kick the ruined table aside, channeling all the suit's energy into pure, raw muscle, briefly surveying the damage my third grade science fair project caused. Two of the Dolls are laying belly-up on the floor; whether they're dead or simply knocked out, I can't tell. Another took the brunt of the blast to her left leg, which is barely holding together. She needs both hands to support it, leaving her weapons discarded and forgotten. The last one seems a bit dizzy yet otherwise unharmed. All of them are coated with a fine layer of white powder that stubbornly clings to their organic-looking parts.

Savoring the fresh surge of power rushing through my body, I take off in a dead sprint, zeroing in on the uninjured Ripper. She barely gets her senses together enough to see my fist before it collides with her jaw in an uppercut.

_Crack!_

The momentum behind the impact jerks her head backward. _Far _backward. Too far back for any normal person to survive – and if the way she stopped moving after bouncing a dozen feet back down the hall is any sign, too much for Dolls to endure, either.

The last Doll, the wounded one, reaches down to pick up her weapon. I get to it first, flattening it into a pancake beneath my boot before diving into a sweep kick that knocks her on her back. The automaton's career as a rogue killing machine ends when my heel stomps her pretty porcelain face once, twice, thrice, leaving it an unrecognizable mess of circuitry and God-knows-what-else.

Panting as the adrenaline wears off, I grab a spare gun off the floor to inspect it closer. Bullpup design, though I don't see anywhere to slot in a magazine. Not surprising given that it shoots plasma bolts rather than any type of ballistic ammo. Man, that scientist wasn't kidding when he said Sangvis Ferri was having luck turning Ceph tech into something humanity could use.

A visual scan of the weapon yields its name: _X10 Lightweight Plasma Submachine Gun_.

It sinks in after a moment what just happened: I defeated fifteen armed and hostile Tactical Dolls with nothing but the suit on my back and some kitchen supplies (though the vending machines get an honorable mention). I have a highly advanced gun in my grip now. Against all odds, my plan somehow _worked. _

I would blow a party favor if I had one.

A muffled curse reminds me that my job's not quite done yet. I bring my gaze down to the androids' commander. She's on the verge of freedom; between the pot, the slippery oil, and the firefight, she's had a hard time finding stable ground to work with. I estimate I have roughly a minute before she escapes and focuses all her wrath on little ol' me.

Come to think of it, I don't believe she managed to get a good look at the Nanosuit…

Eh, screw it. It's not like I'm the defenseless streaker she thinks I am anymore. I'm weaponized, armored, and very, very ticked off at how she made my already difficult situation harder. I think I've more than earned my right to blow off some steam by making her squirm.

I pull over one of the remaining chairs, sit down a fair distance away from her, and patiently wait.

"AT LAST!" Destroyer gasps in exaggerated delight when she finally weasels her way out of her prison, emerging with a wet 'pop'. Her yellow eyes quickly morphing into daggers, she hefts up her dual grenade launchers, sweeping them over the quiet room in search of her prey. "You naked scumbag! How dare you humiliate me like that! You may have defeated my backup, but that's all they were! BACKUP! Leaving me, the _true _threat, alive was a huge mistake!"

_This bitch needs to take a fucking chill pill, _I absently think to myself.

She isn't done ranting. "I didn't hear you run away for your life, streaker! I know you're still in here! Where are you hiding?" A haughty smirk tarnishes her features. "Are you scared, perhaps? Did you realize too late that I'm more powerful than all my underlings combined? Ha! I swear, when I find where you're holed up like the rat you are, I'll make you regret ever trifling with-!"

"Holy Christ Almighty, would you just _shut the fuck up already_?" I interrupt, fed up with her sheer narcissism.

Destroyer's eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets as I decloak, one leg crossed over the other with my new SMG in hand. "Seriously, get over yourself. I'm tempted to hold off from shooting you and just clobber your midget ass instead."

The rogue Doll's mouth opens and closes like a fish on land. She tries to speak, though her words degrade from confident boasts to broken stuttering.

"I… but… you… that's a… _no way_…"

"Yes way," I correct her. I gesture with my free hand to my suited form. "Nifty, isn't it? And here I was thinking you and your lot might've stolen it from me. Definitely helps out in a pinch, that's for sure." I lean closer to her, grinning like a shit-eating monkey under my visor. "Guess 'streaker' isn't such an appropriate name for me anymore, huh?"

"It- It makes no difference!" Destroyer collects herself enough to point a small finger at me. "I will defeat you, fancy Nanosuit or no! It doesn't make you invincible!"

"You're right, it doesn't. Which is why I want to cut the chatter and wrap this up as quickly as possible. Say hello to Robo-Satan for me." Faster than she can react, I whip the X10 in her direction and pull the trigger.

Of course, Fate chooses that exact moment to rear its ugly head and rain on my parade.

Instead of shooting a plasma bolt that would hopefully seal her mouth shut, a wall of glitchy text suddenly invades the BUD, effectively blinding me. A message pops up in the top left corner of my vision: "_ATTENTION! UNSUPPORTED HARDWARE DETECTED. UNABLE TO BYPASS ID LOCK."_

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! _NOW_ you choose to tell me I can't shoot the fucking gun?!

The hell kind of bullshit is this?

"I bet you weren't expecting that, were you, Mr. Fancypants?" I hear Destroyer mocking me. "Sangvis Ferri energy weapons are coded to only work when used by their respective Doll class. You might as well be a caveman with a glass club!"

Unsure of what else to do, I get to my feet and chuck the SMG in the direction of her voice. The malfunctioning interface returns to normal almost as soon as the gun leaves my hand, granting me just enough time to see Destroyer yelp and sidestep away from it. The weapon hits the wall behind her hard enough to leave a dent and shatters to pieces.

Growling dangerously under her breath, the diminutive android shoots me a fierce glare that promises nothing but pain. She raises her launchers to retaliate-

I don't think, I _move_.

I engage armor mode and hit the floor a microsecond before explosions erupt all around me. The sheer volume of noise threatens to rupture my eardrums; I shut my eyes tight, gritting my teeth, acutely aware of the shrapnel and debris peppering my body from all sides. No wonder they call her Destroyer – she alone packs more destructive power than all of her entourage put together.

This is my fault, I berate myself. A smart man would've offed her earlier when he had the chance. By that logic, I am not a smart man. I should've shoved her back inside that stew pot; threatened her; interrogated the Doll for her allies' locations and where to find supplies. But no: instead I ended up inadvertently waking a dragon.

The bombardment feels like it goes on for an eternity. In truth, only eight seconds pass before it dies down.

I crack an eye open. Energy readings at 45%... that's weird. While armor mode lets me absorb a colossal amount of damage, a carpet bombing like that should've at least depleted the N2's reserves, if not kill me outright.

Standing up, I take a quick look at the aftermath. The cafeteria is utterly pulverized – there's not a single table or chair still in one piece. Broken glass and explosive residue scar every inch of the floor around me. Human or otherwise, there is no chance anything caught in ground zero of the blasts could've lived.

Except that, by some miracle, she missed me completely.

My head swivels to face Destroyer. She's rooted in place, her grenade launchers smoking, wearing an expression that clearly says she's just as surprised about the outcome as I am.

"Oh, give me a break…" she groans.

"Word of advice," I snarl, bringing my fists together. "Invest in airburst grenades."

The sound of my knuckles cracking snaps her out of whatever stupor she's in. Howling in outraged defiance, the Sangvis Doll reaches for her weapons' triggers again in preparation for an explosive encore.

Not on my watch.

Lowering myself into a runner's stance, I shoot forward a split second later, rearing my right fist back and flooding it with all the power I can muster.

Everything after that is a blur. I strike Destroyer in the upper torso with the potency of a speeding truck; the kinetic force blows her off her mechanized feet, angling her horizontally in midair. Before the laws of motion can kick in and send her flying backwards, my other hand clamps around one of her legs, holding her in place long enough to piledrive my fist into her stupid-

Smug-

_Face_.

She crashes hard into the floor, stunned and sporting a fresh black eye. Such a devastating blow would normally be lethal – the Ripper whose neck I'd broken earlier was solid proof that a Nanosuit user can easily out-muscle a standard Tactical Doll. Destroyer must be a very special model to withstand a hit like that.

Pressing my assault so she wouldn't have time to recover, I grab her by the throat and lift her into the air, launchers and all, then slam her back down on her stomach. A pained cry escapes her lips, but I'm far too angry for mercy. This bitch thinks she's superior to humans? That she and her gang of wind-up toys can harass me? Threaten me? Order me around and expect me to obey like a trained animal? Hell fucking no. I've just gotten my life back and I'll be _damned _if I don't get out of this place and make up for lost time. She'd dug her own grave by picking a fight with me, and now she's about to _lay_ in it.

My gaze briefly flickers to her grenade launchers. Inaccurate as they appear, they're still deadly. Now that I reflect on it, the volley of explosives functioned exactly like a typical AGL… and she did seem to insinuate that Sangvis energy weapons the only ones affected by the ID lock.

A new idea sparks to life. I've found my replacement weapon.

I dig my boot into the small of her back. Ignoring the way she starts flailing her limbs around like that fucking Nannerpus abomination from the old Denny's commercial, I grab hold of one of her launchers, pump strength into both arms, and heave.

Destroyer renews her thrashing with double the vigor, apparently catching on to what I'm doing. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?! Let go, you stupid ape, let go! Those are MINE!" She keeps trying to fight back, but her efforts are for naught. I'm simply too strong of an opponent for her to handle when it comes to raw musculature.

Her shouts evolve into an anguished shriek when I finally tear the weapon free from its mount on her hip. As always, SECOND is there to give me its official designation: _TX-340 Automatic Grenade Launcher_.

Ooh, it has a fire selector that lets it cycle between different grenade types? That sounds promising. No glitches, either, which is even better.

"You _bastard_!" Destroyer wails. She slams her tiny fists on the ground, bawling her eyes out as I sling my new weapon to rest over my back. "You damn bastard! I can't lose; not like this! How am I gonna face Scarecrow now…?"

I don't bother gifting her a snide response. It would've been a waste of breath, and I need to save it for the future. I do, however, drag one of the mostly intact vending machines over and drop it on top of one of her legs, eliciting a scream of agony from the beaten Doll. She can feel pain…? _Good._

Destroyer's screams cease when I stomp her head into the floor, sending her to android dreamland.

I can finish her off here and now, I muse, staring down at her unconscious form. No doubt it would be the best course of action. She _is_ a dangerous sociopath bent on humanity's destruction, after all. At the very least, I don't want to make the same mistake as before.

I don't know what causes me to change my mind. Perhaps I spare her out of a twisted sense of respect. For all her boasting, she certainly proved herself a worthy adversary with her tenacity and firepower. More likely is that I just can't bring myself to kill something that looks so much like a human child. I've seen kids die before. It's universally viewed as worse than when an adult keels over, and it's a sentiment I personally agree with. Kinda sticks with you, actually.

She's harmless now no matter what, in the end, although that doesn't stop me from looting some extra ammo from her remaining launcher just in case. Never hurts to be prepared.

With the ambush out of the way, SECOND updates my objectives, informing me that my next step is to infiltrate the security wing. Simple business now that I have a grenade launcher, I think with a smile as I unlatch the heavy weapon and bring it to bear.

I turn my back to Destroyer and her dead minions and I'm about to leave the cafeteria when the crackling hiss of radio static stops me in my tracks.

_"Hello, filth."_

The cold greeting gives me pause. I turn around; hovering over Destroyer's limp form is the same holographic video screen the three Sangvis leaders use to communicate with one another. And speak of the devils…

"Sith Bitch." I greet her neutrally.

The coordinator of the hunt huffs, _"My _name _is __**Pioneer Reconnaissance Doll, Model SP65 'Scarecrow'**__."_

"And I'm Alcatraz, but if you want to call each other by insults, that's fine with me."

_"I see you've rediscovered your greatest asset," _she continues, ignoring me. _"And you've also managed to eliminate an entire search force of Tactical Dolls led by a Sangvis Ferri Ringleader. Quite impressive, I must admit… Even though Destroyer is a pushover by Ringleader standards, it's evident to me now why Master has taken such an interest in you."_

Destroyer was the tutorial boss? Great. That's just great.

I wonder how much more of a fight Executioner would put up if I run into her; unless her sword has a built-in EMP emitter, I honestly doubt she'd hold up against me as long as I have ammo to spare. "You sound confident," I casually note. "Think you still have a shot at putting me back to sleep? In case you haven't noticed, I'm no longer defenseless."

_"While I will admit that Destroyer's failure has reduced our chances of success by 19%, you'd do well to remember our efficiency, human. I set up contingency plans in case this sort of scenario happened."_

"Throw as many of your cheap battle droid knockoffs at me as you want. It won't change anything," I tell her matter-of-factly, shrugging. "You claim you're my better? Please. The Ceph put up more of a challenge than you, and the ones on Earth are just mindless drones. I'm practically a wolf among sheep in here."

A tense silence passes between us. Nanosuited marine and Sangvis Ringleader stare each other down, neither of us willing to budge so much as a millimeter on our threats. I wonder what thoughts are going through her artificial mind.

_"It seems I'm not the only one who's confident," _she eventually says.

"Damn right I am. One way or another, I'm getting out of this place."

_"On that we can agree. Once we have you secured and put to sleep, we'll have you transported to HQ for immediate study." _Her gaze suddenly turns more serious than I'd ever seen it. It's honestly kind of creepy. _"I'll give you one last chance to surrender peacefully, filth. If you accept, stay where you are and I'll have Executioner come and restrain you. If you refuse… then I'm afraid I can't promise your survival. And none of us want you to die now, do we?"_

My grip on the grenade launcher tightens. I take a step closer to the screen, giving the self-assured Doll a clear picture of my menacing, brutish appearance. "I am _not _going back in that pod," I grind out through clenched teeth.

Scarecrow gives no visible reaction. _"Then we have nothing left to discuss."_

The hologram disappears into thin air. With a grunt of annoyance, I leave the cafeteria behind, following the waypoint that'll lead me to the security wing's entrance.

Looks like things are about to get interesting.

* * *

**"Hit something hard enough and it'll eventually break." **

**That's my motto in life, and it'll be a central theme in this story. The last thing I want is for Alcatraz to curb stomp every opponent he faces. He might have a few easy fights here and there, but against challenging foes like Sangvis Ringleaders, he'll struggle. Heck, he might even lose a few fights depending on the circumstances.**

**Next chapter will be the end of the Awakening Arc. My plan was for it to only be two chapters long, but then I kept writing and writing and coming up with new ideas… ah well. Four is better than two, I suppose. After that, we might finally see some friendly faces, eh?**

**Also, please let me know what you thought of the fight scene in this chapter! I'm not very experienced with them, although I like to think I did a good job making it semi-believable. Until next time!**


	4. End of the Beginning

**You know what? I'm goddamn proud of myself for making it this far without consulting any source material for guidance. Everything that's happened in this story so far, even if it's still early on, has been the product of my own demented imagination and nothing else. It's a good feeling.**

**Sorry for the delay, by the way. Between work, school, and this chapter's ****_gargantuan_**** size (over 19k words – this is the longest thing I've ever written), it was a necessary wait. But it's finished now, and I want Alcatraz out of this facility and into the crapsack world of GFL by the end of it, so let's not waste any time!**

* * *

**Primary: **Escape the Facility: Explore the Security Wing

There exist a handful of places that seem to just suck your soul right out of your body on approach; hostile, unwelcoming locations which you avoid on instinct, that practically scream "Abandon hope all ye who enter here". Like the DMV. Or in my case, the entrance to the defunct Sangvis Ferri research facility's security wing.

I've been standing in front of it collecting my nerves for a full half-minute. I know what any onlookers would be thinking right now – what does a trained soldier in possession of a Nanosuit and a high-tech grenade launcher have to fear from an unassuming area like this? What could give pause to a person like me, who defeated fifteen Tactical Dolls plus a Ringleader all by himself not thirty minutes ago?

The pool of dried blood seeping under the wing's heavily reinforced door is a definite red flag, for beginners. The small mountain of miscellaneous crap blocking it off is another.

I always find myself in the nicest places.

Heaving out a resigned sigh that yes, I need to waste time clearing the blockade to proceed and yes, I really am planning to go through that foreboding door, I set the TX-340 down and get to work.

Chairs, tables, filing cabinets, lab equipment… If it belongs in a secret research facility, then it's in the pile. I even find another of those lava lamp thingamajigs from the room where I first awakened. It would make a fine souvenir, as well as a great reminder of the things I've endured in the facility to achieve my hard-earned freedom… except I hold no love for this place and I'm itching to forget I've ever been here at all, so it ends up getting tossed over my shoulder without a second thought like every other bit of junk.

I move at a fast pace, clearing the clutter away without any regard to how much noise I might be making. The sooner it's all gone, the sooner I can keep moving, and the better chances I have of the bloodthirsty Doll Executioner not catching a whiff of my scent.

I shiver despite myself. _That _one is enough to convince me that venturing into where the Doll presence is likely to be thickest is worth the risk. I'd beaten Destroyer thanks to the element of surprise and the good graces of Lady Luck, though a gut instinct tells me Executioner is in a different ball park entirely; a whole league of her own. With the high of my earlier victory having worn off some time ago, I decided that evading her will continue to be my best defense unless absolutely necessary.

Off the record, I'm also not keen on the thought of getting intimately familiar with the receiving end of her ultra-compensation sword.

Finally, after way too long, the junk heap is thinned out enough so that I can walk through the rest. I retrieve my stolen grenade launcher and hit the access panel on the doorframe, steeling myself for combat as the heavy door rolls aside and-

And-

And pours forth another pile, this one composed of burnt clothing and bones.

I recoil away from the entrance like it's on fire.

_Oh my god…_

I'm no paragon of what it means to be a soldier. I'm prone to losing my nerve just like everyone else, and there were instances when I was in the service that made me want to huddle away in the darkest corner I could find, praying that whatever was going on was nothing more than a nasty side effect of mixing military-grade stims with a bottle of cheap alcohol. I've seen what happens when riots turn violent over the course of my deployment to Sri Lanka. I've seen _alien fucking lifeforms _attempt to colonize a human city. I've seen them use a genetically engineered super-virus to melt people down into sludge while they were still alive, simply for the sake of waste management. In summary, I've _seen _shit.

It never gets easier to cope with, either, contrary to what some may think. All the waking nightmares I've had the displeasure of witnessing firsthand would stay with me until the day I die for real.

And as I stare in slack-jawed horror at the skeletal remains of Sangvis Ferri's former staff, I conclude the sight is yet another thing that will forever haunt me in my dreams.

These people… they'd been trapped on the other side of the door when the lockdown went into effect, left to the non-existent mercy of their Dolls. They'd come here seeking to escape from their creations but instead found themselves at a dead end. The remains of their lab coats, maybe a pristine white color once upon a time, are riddled with blackened scorch marks indicating superheated plasma.

I do a quick headcount and come up with thirteen bodies. Thirteen scientists, slaughtered like livestock without a second thought.

My eyes flit back to the yawning, dimly lit corridor ahead of me. I now believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever killed off the staff is still in there, and – if I'm especially unlucky – still waiting for the next clueless victim to stumble into their turf. In other words, someone like me.

Hopefully those Dolls won't come equipped with some type of experimental anti-Nanosuit gadgetry.

Best to bite the bullet and get this over with, I reluctantly concede. Time is of the essence, and the sooner I reach the maintenance tunnel, the happier I'll be. I linger just long enough to bless myself with the sign of the cross and ready my AGL before venturing once more into the unknown, reciting Psalm 23:4 under my breath to stave off the echo of bones crunching beneath my boots:

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…"

* * *

**(Ten Minutes Later)**

If the area dedicated to studying my symbiotic relationship with the N2 was dark and spooky, then the facility's security wing is _very _dark and _very _spooky. This is coming from the same crazy motherfucker who regularly delved into Ceph hives with little regard to his personal safety. The only form of illumination in these hallways originates from scattered emergency lights that bathe portions of my surroundings in an eerie red glow, made doubly unnerving by the occasional skeleton lying prone on the floor. My tactical visor is kept on, vigilantly scanning for threats. The TX-340 is pointed ahead of me and ready to fire at the first sign of danger.

I can't stress enough how much the place rubs my nerves the wrong way. Doesn't matter if I'm a Nanosuited super-soldier or not; the atmosphere in here is downright malevolent, and it creeps me the fuck out.

Every inch of wall not painted red by the lights is consumed by shadows. Sometimes they're pockmarked by scorch marks, and where those are located, a corpse usually isn't that far away. There are other signs of disrepair, too: the occasional hallway completely smothered in darkness – courtesy of smashed lighting – or loose paneling in dire need of replacement, peeled back to expose layers upon layers of sparking circuitry hidden behind the walls and ceiling.

Instead of labs and offices, most of the wing's side rooms contain an assortment of surveillance and monitoring equipment, all defunct after what I estimate to be years without anyone alive to take proper care of it. I branch away from the main path a couple of times to glance inside some of the rooms – mostly for curiosity's sake, though I don't discover any noteworthy loot. Now that I think more about it, it really feels like I've been thrown into one of those indie survival games, the ones where the protagonist has to scrounge for items and evade enemies while slowly piecing together the bigger picture behind the plot.

Not as much fun in real life as it sounds. Trust me.

After following SECOND's waypoint for who knows how long, I eventually round a corner and find myself staring at a corpse wearing a black and red security uniform slumped against the left side of the wall about twenty feet ahead. There's something clutched in its hands, something about the size and shape of a rifle, so naturally I head over to investigate.

Setting Destroyer's grenade launcher down again, I pry the object free from its owner's grip and take a closer look.

Turns out it's a shotgun. Not just any shotgun, either – it's a Marshall pump-action, the staple shotgun of law enforcement, military police, and any private security firms lucky enough to snag a good deal. While I don't have much intel on Sangvis Ferri pre-Doll rebellion or as a whole, it's pretty easy to imagine them getting their grease mittens on a gun like this, especially if they were as big a company as Dr. White's computer seemed to suggest. Together with how cramped the hallways of this facility are, it makes perfect sense to find one here.

Problem is, it's useless now. The forend is partially melted and fused to the bolt – undoubtedly the handiwork of a plasma weapon – which means it would be impossible for the gun to chamber a new shell after firing. No wonder my visor hadn't bothered pointing it out to me earlier. It would've been a pointless gesture.

Still, it's not all bad news. Most modern militaries and PMCs tend to standardize their equipment for logistical purposes. If I found one Marshall, then odds are good there are more stashed somewhere in this labyrinth. I'll have to keep an eye out for-

_"HOSTILE DETECTED."_

A red arrow materializes on my minimap, coming from further down the corridor and headed in my direction.

Combat reflex immediately kicks in. I drop the shotgun, grab my AGL, and fade from sight just as my ears pick up the familiar sound of metallic footsteps.

The Doll turns the corner, and my first thought upon seeing it is, _That's not a Ripper_. My second thought – _Why is it wearing a swimsuit holy shit what the fuck were the engineers smoking when they built that thing?!_

I shit you not, I am facing a Doll wearing what can loosely be described as a chainmail bikini. The android's left arm and legs are protected by heavy armor plating; rounding out its appearance is something akin to a blast-proof collar fastened around its neck. It's wielding a heavy black shield in one hand and an energy pistol in the other, similar to the type Executioner uses, although this one has a bayonet mounted under the barrel.

My tac visor brings up the unit's designation – 'Guard' – along with other helpful nuggets of information. Interior subdermal plating, redundant survival mechanisms… all fancy words for _bullet sponge_. The lack of clothing suddenly makes sense, kinda. Maybe. Not really.

Whatever.

That also explains how it's still operating despite the four massive bullet holes in its torso, I note as the machine hobbles closer to me. I don't know if it's the gunshots or the lack of maintenance, but the thing is obviously damaged. The way she's stumbling aimlessly down the hallway, struggling to keep her balance, is very reminiscent of a girl on her way home after a long night at the bar.

Let's see here... Tanky enemy with a shield that poses a very high risk of bumping into me, no matter how stealthy I try to be. She's blocking the fastest way forward, and the threat of Executioner coming doesn't leave me a whole lot of time to hide in a side room and wait for her to pass, or double back and search for an alternate route.

Good thing I'd planned ahead for encounters like this.

I take aim at the Doll with my ill-acquired grenade launcher and let 'em fly.

And sweet son of a _bitch _does this thing have a crazy high rate of fire! No wonder Destroyer was never able to hit me; even with the Nanosuit augmenting my strength, the recoil pulls my arms up until I'm shooting closer to the ceiling than my target. It feels like I'm trying to wrangle in an angry goose instead of a gun. The kick is just _that _severe.

Lots of satisfying booms, though.

When I finally tame the beast enough to remember to let go of the trigger, there isn't enough of the Guard left to fit inside a pickle jar. Practically everything in the general area she'd been standing in has been cratered to kingdom come.

Her shield, however, is still intact. Or at least it was, until my foot nudges it aside as I pass by and it splinters apart.

I'm so glad I decided to go through the hassle of getting this thing.

* * *

The next several minutes of my trek through the security wing are relatively mundane, so much so that it's not worth going into extensive detail over. I see Doll, I shoot Doll. Doll goes kaboom. Rinse and repeat. Not much else to say, really.

Between the N2's cheap wallhacking ability and the TX-340's ludicrous firepower, I hold the overwhelming edge in every skirmish, somewhat helped by the fact that none of the Doll patrols number more than four units. Rippers and Guards, mostly, though I also come across one or two wearing bizarre fishbowl-shaped helmets and carrying energy rifles that my onboard AI labeled 'Vespids'. Idly I wonder how many different models there are. Not that it will make much difference, me being a superpowered walking tank and all.

Minutes tick by. I almost allow myself to begin relaxing. I'm making some good time, and better yet, I still haven't detected eye nor ear of Executioner.

When will it sink through my thick skull that it's never allowed to be so easy?

I'm busy ambling down another hallway towards where the BUD dropped another waypoint, expecting to reach it with no difficulty and secure in the knowledge that it would automatically update to take me closer to the exit. As much as the armor's prone to crashes, and as much as I bitch about it at times, I would've gotten hopelessly lost in New York if the suit's navigational system didn't work as well as it does.

So I'm honestly taken aback when the waypoint suddenly disappears into thin air. My minimap is affected, too; rendered into noiseless static without any warning.

Uhh… what?

Not liking this new development, I take a step back, blinking in confusion when the waypoint and minimap pop back into existence like nothing ever happened. When I step forward again, they both disappear.

I repeat the movement a few more times to make sure this isn't just some random glitch in the software, frowning as I come to an unsettling conclusion: something beyond this threshold is fucking with my signal. If I went ahead, I'd be deaf dumb and blind in every way besides my own human eyesight. Which, I should add, also means I'd lose my roadmap on how to get out of here.

My mind flashes back to Scarecrow's warning. Is this one of her contingency plans? If so, then she's a crafty bitch. She knows I want to escape this facility, so therefore struck dead center at the part of my suit that would allow me to do so. She'd hinted her knowledge of my true capabilities and how resilient an opponent I am.

This gimmick wasn't put in place to stop me – it's meant to slow me down so Executioner could catch up.

Though I hate to admit it, it's an ingenious plan.

I look behind me. I could take my chances backtracking and searching for a different path, but what would that change? I'd still be wasting time no matter what. No, if I want to keep the lead in this hunt, I'll have to suck it up and press forward, even if that means entering a total dead zone.

I grumble a lot of interesting words under my breath as I move onward. A lot of them start with F.

* * *

**Secondary: **Locate and Destroy the Interference

"Where the _hell_ am I?!"

It isn't the first time I've asked myself that question over the past thirty minutes and I doubt it'll be the last. I'd been heading in a roughly linear direction until my nav gear died, so it only made sense to keep going that way, right? The issue stems from me eventually hitting a dead-end hallway, leaving me lost and without any idea of where to go.

I swear that if or when I get my hands on Scarecrow, I'd tear that facemask off, rip out her tongue if she has one, then twist her pretty little head so far around she'd be staring herself in the eye.

On a related note, why would anyone need a facility this big? This place is enormous! I get that Sangvis Ferri wanted to study me and everything, but did they really need to dedicate such a huge structure for the purpose of researching one soldier? I refuse to believe it. There has to be more. What else haven't I found yet?

I put a hand to my head and groan loudly, partly out of frustration, though mostly because I feel _another _familiar headache coming on. I'm almost used to it by now, sad to say.

Some of my anger evaporates when the memory plays out.

I'm – Prophet is – _we're _in the same room as last time, along with Psycho, except now we're observing a video playing on a computer monitor. The video's focused on a brown-haired woman wearing a white medical shirt, watched over by a nameless CELLulite. The woman is visibly struggling to keep her composure as she speaks over the noise of someone screaming in agony in the background. I realize a moment later it's _Psycho's_ voice that's screaming.

_"Subject 8a – Sergeant Michael Sykes, is still functioning at near optimal levels." _The poor British bastard lets out another pained howl. The camera pans down to look at him. He's strapped to an operating table, eyes shut tight and screaming for all he's worth as _something _happens to him out of view.

Back to the unknown woman. She visibly falters for a moment, swallowing nervously before continuing, _"But accelerated degradation is to be expected…"_

Psycho, the present-day Psycho, turns around, and… Jesus Christ. I can't tear my gaze away from him. Can't stop staring at the heartbreaking expression of hurt and betrayal in his mossy green eyes. He looks… I don't know. Defeated, I guess. While I never met him personally, snippets of Prophet's subconscious inform me he's never seen the guy act like this before, either.

The flashback abruptly ends.

I'm back in the hallway. Everything is dead quiet. No screams, no cries for help, nothing but the low hum of machinery hidden behind the walls. Almost have a heart attack when an air duct suddenly whirs to life, though.

"Barnes…" I exhale an empty sigh. "I don't know if you're responsible for these, but if you are, then quit it. It's not helping."

Eagerness to not dwell on the disturbing vision aside, if I'm stuck in the middle of a firefight and my mind goes to la-la land, I'd be a sitting duck. It's a big part of the reason I don't want to tango with those Tactical Dolls any more than I need to.

Shaking off the last traces of my headache, I adjust my grip on the TX-340 and resign myself to the thought of more aimless wandering when my ears detect a faint whirring noise coming from somewhere close by. It sounds like it's getting nearer, too. Another Doll? I don't hear footsteps, but that's beside the point. Best to engage stealth mode and get the drop on whatever it is.

I activate my cloak, watching from my peripherals as the suit along with my grenade launcher begins to fade from view… then bite my tongue to keep from cursing out loud when it abruptly fizzles out halfway through the process.

Come on, really?_ Now_ what the fuck's wrong with me?!

No choice but to do this head-on, then. I point my heavy weapon in the direction the whirring is coming from, tracing it as best I can, until the source of the noise floats around the corner into full view. Yes, floats.

…Huh.

I remember, back when I was eighteen, I once saw an ad in one of those lifestyle magazines for a 'wearable chair'. It basically consisted of a belt attached to a pair of folding pegs that stick to your ass, and you unfold them anytime and anywhere you wanted to sit. I'd bought one as a joke for a friend's birthday before it was discontinued shortly afterward for being too silly of an idea.

The reason I bring this up is because the little drone hovering in place twenty-five feet away bears a superficial resemblance to the product. The main difference is the red eye-sensor-thing on the main body, the color scheme that instantly gives it away as a Sangvis Ferri unit, and the pair of tiny energy weapons mounted on top of the chassis – weapons that are now fixated on me and emitting a high-pitched whine.

A feminine giggle echoes from the machine.

_"Found you, Alcatraz~"_

My blood, if I still have any, turns to ice. _Executioner._

The drone and I simultaneously exchange fire. Red lasers pepper me everywhere from the waist up; it doesn't hurt much, in fact they feel more like light stings than anything, but they're numerous and they come fast. Meanwhile, the drone rapidly darts around, avoiding my automatic volley of explosives without so much as a scratch. And it _just keeps shooting_.

Growling deep in my throat, I mentally will the Nanosuit to harden its outer layer to help withstand the barrage. Only, it doesn't. I'm still taking damage.

SECOND finally seems to realize something's amiss here and posts a short message on my interface: _"Warning! Unknown interference detected. Suit functions unavailable." _

"Are you fucking shitting me right now?!" I yell, the frustration finally boiling over, and I flinch back when a bolt hits me square in the face.

This is getting embarrassing. I'm a fucking Nanosuit warrior. I'm what happens when the thin line separating science and morality is blurred into oblivion. I've cleaved through hordes of mercs and aliens hellbent on my death. The sight of me alone is enough to make small children cry. I should _not _be losing in a fight against a floating wearable chair, dammit!

I fire another volley at the pest. Like before, it easily zigzags through the gaps between grenades.

My teeth grind together. _Shit._

Another long trigger pull produces the same lack of results.

_Dammit…_

Anger welling up in my veins, I mount the TX-340 on my shoulder and fire it Rambo-style, blanketing everything in my line of sight with 40mm devastation. Although I almost manage to nail it a few times, the drone STILL refuses to die, and it's STILL attempting to kill me with its pea shooter guns.

_HOW DO I HIT THIS ZIPPITY LITTLE FUCK?!_

The answer is, I can't – not with a low-velocity weapon like a grenade launcher. Not only is this 'battle' (and I use that term _very _loosely) utterly pathetic, it's also pointless. I'm wasting precious time trying to swat a fly while a much bigger and deadlier predator is closing in on me. I have to move quickly, or else this situation would raise from irritating to ugly.

I break off the engagement and run, barreling past the drone which momentarily stops firing and lifts itself closer to the ceiling to avoid getting trampled under a couple hundred pounds of Nanosuit soldier. It beeps once, then follows after me as I bolt down the nearest corridor, resuming its new favorite pastime of shooting at my retreating form.

I hug the TX-340 closer, shielding it from the laser fire with my body. More and more needle-like stabs of pain impact against my back. It's starting to feel warm.

Gotta think. Gotta come up with a way to shake this thing. As long as this bot continues following me, Executioner will know where I am, and the thought of falling right into her clutches spurs me to run even faster. I try and fail to increase the muscle mass in my legs. Damn, this launcher's heavy.

_"You can run, but you can't hide from us!" _I hear the Doll giggle in sadistic delight behind me.

Oh yeah? I'll take my chances. There's an open room up ahead to my left; I duck inside, pressing myself against the wall next to the doorframe. I lift my grenade launcher up by the barrel like a baseball bat and wait to see if the pesky drone will come in after me. If it does, then it's in for a nasty Alcatraz-brand surprise.

I'm not kept waiting for long. It stops right outside the room, the buzzing noise it emits giving it away. The noise draws closer… closer…

The moment I see its frontal half poke through the doorway, I swing as hard as I can-

And _miss _by less than a centimeter when the piece of shit suddenly zooms backwards.

Thrown off-balance when the power behind the blow hits nothing but empty air, I stumble back into the hallway, dropping my weapon in the process, and I think both the drone and myself weren't expecting my leftover momentum to throw me straight into it. At least, if the shriek it lets out before I grab hold of its chassis for support and drag us both to the floor is any indication.

Okay. Not what I'd planned, but I can make do with this.

It's quick and brutal work from there. I grapple with the machine for a few seconds, wrapping an arm around one of its peg-like protrusions to keep it from breaking free. Lasers are shooting all over the place, and several do strike me, but I'm too pissed off to take much notice. The sensor piece turns into a spiderweb of cracks after my first punch and caves in after the second. My fingers brush against cables; I grab a fistful and tug, easily ripping them free. The drone sputters once, gives one last pitiful whine, then dies in my cold embrace.

_Phew_. Golem Boy: one; aggravating flying robot: zero. Fucking hell, that isn't something I want to go through ever again.

I take a ten second break to let my muscles sag and wonder when my life escalated from Semper Fi in all its gung-ho glory to… whatever _this _is. I make a mental note and tack it somewhere on the nauseatingly huge (and still growing) corkboard of things I'd have to examine more in-depth at a later date. Right now, my main focus is on survival and escape.

Once I'm rested up and ready to move on, I scoop up Destroyer's grenade launcher. BUD's ammo counter informs me it's beginning to run low – maybe three more prolonged bursts, or four if I keep them under control. Should probably start looking for more weapons soon. Another shotgun would come in handy, especially if I encounter more of those drones.

I've taken five steps forward when a sudden thought occurs to me. Uhh… which way am I going, again?

The way I see it, I'm very likely to sooner or later run into one of three things: Executioner, the maintenance area, or whatever Scarecrow is using to jam the suit's signal. If I can somehow destroy that and clear it up, it would make the latter two outcomes beneficial. A 66% chance of finding something good if I just keep searching around long enough.

Hell, I'm perfectly willing to cross blades with Executioner as long as it means avoiding the fourth, my-luck-is-atrocious scenario (i.e. go in a complete circle and find myself back in the research wing).

* * *

**(Five Minutes Later)**

Ask and you shall receive.

I'm still not exactly sure how it happened. I'd been minding my own business, trudging down another creepy corridor and testing the suit's functions to see which bells and whistles the jamming field affected. Turns out the answer is nearly all of them – I can't even open my tac visor, let alone access any combat features. It gives new meaning to the term 'dead zone'. At the very least I can still swap back to my human form, useless as it might be.

I'd been giving serious consideration to finding a cardboard box to use as portable concealment when I round the next corner and almost jump out of my second skin.

"There you are!" Executioner exclaims, resting her massive sword over her shoulder and wearing a decidedly predatory grin. The dim emergency lighting only adds to my mental image of her as some kind of robotic sex demon.

"Aren't we lucky, girls?" She motions with her head to indicate the two Rippers and three Vespids accompanying her. "We were tasked to hunt him down, and he stumbled right into us instead! Oh, isn't this perfect…"

I'm only paying half-attention. My focus is torn between not freaking out and staring in disbelief at the trio of buzzing hoverdrones lazily circling the air above the Ringleader and her lackeys.

One was bad enough, but _three_? That's just fucking unfair…

The sole advantage I have in this standoff is that Executioner's too far back to make use of her weapon. The rank-and-file Dolls and drones, on the other hand, are a different story. This… could get complicated.

"You must be wondering how I found my way down here, especially after our last meeting was… _cut short_," she continues, giggling at her own joke.

My fingers drum restlessly against the TX-340's side. Now that she brought it up, I _am _a tad curious. "I'd like to know, yeah."

The Doll points with her clawed hand to the drones buzzing overhead. "These little beauties gave us a lift down the shaft. Smart, wouldn't you agree?"

"Uh… sure."

So they _are_ wearable chairs.

"I've been waiting for this opportunity, you know… Hoping you would disobey Scarecrow's orders and make this more _fun_." She takes a single step closer, and my instinctive reaction is to move back. Her polished black blade gleams ominously in the hall's crimson glow. "And you didn't disappoint me on that front. Here we are, you and I, about to square off against one another… a Sangvis Ferri Ringleader and a soldier from a bygone era dueling to the death. Sounds exciting, doesn't it? Tell me the mere thought of the potential violence fills you with-" She pauses all of a sudden, red eyes finally taking notice of the heavy object in my grip. "Wait, isn't that one of Destroyer's grenade launchers?"

I back up another step. "…Maybe."

She's fond of pre-battle banter; I could tell right away. My hope now is that she'll run her mouth long enough for me to pull a half-decent plan out of my ass and run with it. While Tactical Dolls pale against the Ceph in terms of… well, pretty much everything except physical allure, my disabled suit still puts me in a tight spot. I have to think of something before she gets bored and decides to let her sword do the talking instead.

The mad android throws her head back and lets out a hearty laugh. "You mean you actually _stole it _from her?! Oh, that's marvelous! Fantastic!" Her laughter soon lowers to a mirthful chuckle. She locks gazes with me again, eyes shining. "Adding lasting insult to injury… You're exactly the type of adversary I've been craving. An opponent who isn't afraid to fight dirty. Don't get me wrong – Griffin Dolls are fun, but they break too easily, like the cheap toys they are."

What the hell's a Griffin Doll?... Eh, not important right now. Something resembling the barest threads of a plan are slowly crawling to the surface of my mind. I might suck at long-term planning – my life before I joined the Marine Corps is solid proof of that – but when push comes to shove, I'm damn good at improvising.

If she wants me to fight dirty, then I'll happily oblige.

Executioner, with one hand, lifts her blade perpendicular to her chest, scraping a clawed finger along its sharpened length. "Now, Alcatraz, be a good little abomination and-"

I abruptly cut her off by unloading all of my remaining ammo into her posse.

Executioner's eyes widen in alarm; I barely see her begin to jump backward before she and the others are consumed by hellfire.

Vibrations from the resounding explosions rock the ground under my feet. My visor polarizes so the bright flashes won't blind me. The noise, though, threatens to leave me deaf. The TX-340 kicks like a mule, spitting out grenade after lethal grenade, swallowing everything in its path with pure, raw destruction.

After five full seconds of nonstop spraying and praying, the launcher finally clicks dry. I promptly throw it aside and sprint as fast as I can back the way I'd come from, not bothering to look back to see if the Dolls are dead or not.

I shouldn't have to. Nothing could survive a barrage as thorough as that in such close quarters, right?

Executioner is down for the count… isn't she?

I soon hear a familiar buzz over my rapid breaths and the pounding of my footsteps. One of the drones must've gotten lucky and avoided the blasts. Not all that surprising, really, though I'm questioning why it's not shooting me and why it's so insistent on chasing-

_"Hmph. That was rude." _You-Know-Who huffs through the drone's speaker.

Son of a _bitchnugget_.

_"Are we really going to keep playing this game, Alcatraz?" _Executioner's words, while they remain teasing, now hold an undertone of annoyance. _"You're only delaying the inevitable by running. Why not indulge me and get it over with, hmm?"_

Maybe a good old sucker punch will do the trick…

Grinding to a sudden stop, I whirl around and throw a blind haymaker at the drone – which, to my ire, evades the attack with ease. Man, I am seriously beginning to hate those things.

_"Aw, what's the matter? Is the big bad Nanosuit soldier getting aggravated? Have you finally realized how hopelessly outmatched you are?" _the Ringleader mocks me.

My eye twitches under my helmet but I don't take the bait. I know instantly what her angle is. She wants to get me angry enough that I'd pull something reckless and make a mistake. Too bad for her I possess the discipline that only Marine Corps boot camp could drill into me, along with a younger sister who constantly goaded me the same way back when she was going through a bratty phase.

Rather than dignify her with a response, I turn my back to the drone and resume my marathon through the security wing. It follows me closely, tracking my every move, relaying my location to the Doll in pursuit.

_"You're crazy if you think you can run away from your fate!"_

She's totally right; I _am _crazy – crazy enough to know that running is my only chance.

I'm reluctant to admit it, but the Dolls' strategy up to this point was genius: disable my suit's higher functions so I couldn't properly track or fight them, then send a Ringleader who _could _track me and _existed _to fight. It's not a stretch to imagine that Executioner's drones have some sort of immunity to the interference, either, otherwise they would probably have issues with their camera feeds. Sangvis Ferri is effectively using my best tactics against me.

It's terrifying, being on the receiving end for a change. I almost feel bad for the legions of half-trained goons CELL churned out to neutralize me.

The hallway I'm currently speeding through looks a bit different than the others. No because it was any cleaner – I still see a few skeletons in uniform sprinkled amidst signs of an earlier battle – but because it steadily curves to the right for reasons I can't discern. My hopes are suddenly renewed, if only because this is something new than anything else. Am I finally getting close to the signal interference? Or better yet, the maintenance tunnel?

I soon reach the end of the corridor, emerging into what looks like a hub area. The overhead lights are a normal, pale yellow color instead of ominous blood red, and the ceiling in general is higher up, too. Two more hallways connect with the space: the first is directly across from the one I'd came from and still curves rightward, while the other, situated between the two, is a typical straightaway. None of that is what really piques my interest, however.

Sitting to my left is a malfunctioning set of sliding double doors. They appear to be trying to close automatically, though they fail each time before they could fully snap shut, and each time it elicits a few angry sparks from a damaged keypad. A pathetic sight to behold, but it's something above the doors that earns my full attention.

Proudly displayed in blue lettering on one of those scroll feeds is a single word: _ARMORY._

My spirits soar.

Then crash back down to Earth when my unwanted companion decides to comment.

_"My, what have we here? A possible game changer? How exciting…"_

"Shut the fuck up and let me have this moment," I snap at the drone.

I theorize this hub must be a strategic location designed for rapid reaction. The three hallways connecting here must be the fastest paths to other sections of the wing, meaning the security staff could swiftly make it here and arm themselves in case of an emergency before deploying just as fast. I approach the broken doors and give them a once-over. Solid, but I won't need more strength than the Nanosuit's default mode provides to force them open.

I roll my shoulders, then bury my fingers into metal, gradually prying the doors apart until there's enough open space for me to slip inside.

Executioner's spy drone, noticing that I'm occupied, seizes the opportunity and darts above my head into the armory before I can swat it away.

"Hey!" I throw myself inside after it, only paying minimal thought to how the doors finally snap shut behind me.

Unlike everywhere else in the security wing, the armory is absolutely pristine. Weapon racks and ammo crates sit in neat rows along the far perimeter, stocked with an assortment of guns I have trouble identifying from this far away without the N2's tac visor. A small flight of stairs (which is intriguing – I'd thought SF didn't know what stairs even a_re_) leads to a raised platform on the left overlooking the stockpile, though I can't make out much else from where I'm standing.

And I guess the universe decided to throw me a bone, because the drone is right there in front of me, examining a half-empty rack of what I recognize as more shotguns as I calmly step closer.

It turns to look at me when I grab one and give it an experimental pump. _"You really lucked out here, Alcatraz. I'm surprised Scarecrow didn't think to check for an armory when we came here." _It floats closer until its sensor is a foot away from my head. _"I guess even us Sangvis Dolls aren't perfect… but that's why Master sent us to look for you in the first place, did you know? To hopefully remedy that."_

"This isn't the first time I've heard about you junk heaps having a 'Master'," I inform her, turning to go check out an ammo stash. As always, the drone follows like the world's most dedicated puppy. Or maybe the most annoying. One of the two. "You ever gonna spill who they are and what they want with me?"

_"Hmm… no, I don't think so." _Executioner replies cheerfully. _"I'm the one you should be worried about right now. In fact, I've just arrived at the armory myself."_

Just to confirm she isn't bullshitting, I hear a couple of loud knocks on the sealed door.

_"Oh, don't get your suit in a twist," _she snarks when I doubled the speed of my ammo scrounging. _"There's only one way in and out of here, and I have all the time in the world. What's that old human saying? 'A cornered rat fights the hardest'?" _She pauses to giggle again._ "Go ahead, work at your own pace. I'm curious to see what you'll do next."_

I force down a sudden well of panic.

Shit. Okay. She isn't trying to cut her way inside – she doesn't need to, with me being trapped in here and everything. She also doesn't seem to care that I've snagged some weapons. Hell, knowing her, it's likely making her even more fired up. As long as she actually gets to fight me head-on, she doesn't give a damn about what I do to prepare. It speaks volumes about how much faith she has in her ability to defeat me. Now _that _is the textbook definition of cockiness.

I spend another minute inspecting the available arsenal. Despite the good number of weapons, variety is painfully limited, consisting only of Marshall shotguns, Feline SMGs, and M12 Nova pistols. My guess about standardization and easier logistics was correct, it seems. Engagements in this facility have all been close-quarters so far, so why bother requisitioning a sniper rifle?

The shotgun is staying with me, no question about it, though I flip-flop on whether to take a Nova or a Feline before settling on the former. Sorry, kitty. Maybe next time.

I work my way upstairs next. End up tripping halfway up and banging my shin when I see a big, majestic, and very much needed map of the security wing displayed on a 60-inch screen mounted on the far wall.

God is great, God is good, God just gave me my escape from the 'hood.

No words can accurately describe the crushing feeling of relief coursing through me_._ I have half a mind to prostrate myself before the map, and I might've done so had the circumstances at the time not been so dire.

Recovering from my slight blunder, I take the stairs three at a time until I'm standing right in front of the screen. I trace a gloved finger along the smooth surface. Let's see here… The armory is marked by a red dot, so that helps pinpoint my location. A circular space, much larger than anywhere I'd been, is positioned directly at the heart of the wing, and beyond that, a short dead-end hallway. I'd bet a year's worth of shore leave that's where the maintenance tunnel's entrance is. Between here and there is what I presume is the security chief's office, along with… something else. Another circular space, but smaller. Hmm.

Why do I suddenly feel the inexplicable urge to find out what that is?

Damn my need for thoroughness.

Sighing, I step away from the map to check out more crates and a row of equipment lockers to the right. Rummaging through them yields several empty bandoliers, some utility belts, a porno mag dated all the way back to 2016, and various other bits of tactical gear.

As I diligently prepare myself for whatever our often-cruel universe has in store for me, it dawns on me for the first time since awakening just how alone I am. No chain of command, even if they behave rashly at the best of times and downright unhinged at the worst. No squadmates to back me up. No friendly faces to keep me company other than False Prophet, and he's little more than a preconfigured imprint stored within the N2's memory banks.

For the first time since I joined the Marines, I have-

_"Are you almost done? I know I said to take your time, but I'm getting bored sitting around waiting for you to-"_

_BOOM!_

I stare nonchalantly at the ruined drone blown across the room, pumping the Marshall and ejecting the spent shell casing.

Ahem… _As I was saying_, for the first time since I joined the Marines, I have nobody to give me instructions or watch my back. Even when I was forced to fend for myself in New York after most of Omega-One was slaughtered, Nathan Gould or Jack Hargreave were always there to fill me in on what needed to be done.

Omega-One… my old squad…

I miss them. Lord above, do I miss them. Heh… I guess I got that part of my brain back.

Still, due to the mission taking utmost priority, I never had a chance to properly mourn their deaths… until now, anyway. And the grief, the pain of losing the men I saw as my surrogate family? It hits me just then. It hits me _hard_.

The Warden was our squad leader. Although he wasn't that much older than the rest of us, it didn't mean he deserved any less of our respect as a consequence. He was tough, but fair. The kind of jarhead who pushed you to the breaking point only because he wanted to toughen you up enough to see you make it out alive. He left behind a fiancé and a one-year-old son, if I'm remembering correctly.

Folsom's hobby was learning new languages and studying different cultures. He was fluent in a whopping eight tongues, making him an invaluable asset when we were deployed to non-English-speaking countries and had to diffuse civil unrest before it descended into anarchy. Yeah, he was also a raging Japanophile, but he knew better than to let his personal interests get in the way of an assignment. A good guy all around. Probably would've had a weird boner for Scarecrow, though.

Leavenworth, on the flipside, was convinced it was all one giant conspiracy. In his viewpoint, cell phones were mind control devices used by governments to subtly brainwash their populations, an organization in Alaska caused a tornado in Missouri, the JFK assassination was a cover-up, and aliens were responsible for the destabilization of our planet. Funny thing is, he was right about that last one. I like to think he would've brought a tinfoil hat to NYC with him if he'd known we'd bump into the Ceph ahead of time.

Sing Sing. A ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak world. He always somehow managed to find the bright side in the darkest situations, like when he pointed out how the Statue of Liberty was still intact not even two minutes after our sub, the USS _Nautilus_, went six fathoms under. Seriously, the dude was the most jovial fucker I've ever met, which was strange when you factored in his obsession with heavy metal. Great person, wonderful friend. He died screaming.

And finally, Chino. My only other squadmate to make it to the end. He's as tough as Force Recon Marines come, so I was rightfully horrified when we mistakenly thought he'd been the first casualty. Should've known better than to doubt him. When we reunited in Madison Square Park, he not only defied all expectations by surviving, he'd also been able to keep up with me in firefights despite not having a Nanosuit of his own. A true Marine, a real brother in arms, and I hope he'd done good for himself after my 'death' in Central Park.

They were my team. My family away from family. All but one of them is dead now.

So I'll have to be the one to hold onto their memories and carry on their legacy, I conclude as I move to open up another supply box. I'll live on for them, making damn sure they won't be forgotten by the passage of time. It's the least I can do to thank them for being the best bunch of misfits a borderline alcoholic could ask for.

And I suppose God approved of my newfound conviction and decided to reward me, because I hit the goddamn motherload with that crate: M17 frag grenades and enough C4 to level a building.

Oh yeah, now we're cookin'.

Not even going to question why a research facility's security department felt the need to carry plastic explosives. It would put a foul dampener on my good mood.

I snatch three packs of C4 and twice as many frags, fastening them securely on my looted belt and bandolier. I'd taken those items in case I needed to revert to human form, or else my weapons and ammo would have nothing to hold them in place. Once I'm topped off, I pause to take one last look at the map, committing it to memory, then make my way back downstairs.

It's a straight shot down the middle hallway to what I believe is my final destination. The main problem is that Executioner is right outside the armory's exit, itching for our long-awaited showdown.

There would be no avoiding her this time. At least, that's what her artificial mind believes.

When is she going to learn that I refuse to play by her rules?

* * *

"Conquering all obstacles, both large and small, I shall never quit."

I check the quality of the wiring once more. Thankfully, it hasn't degraded over time.

"To quit, to surrender, to give up is to fail."

The detonator seems to be in working order…

"To be a Recon Marine is to surpass failure; to overcome, to adapt and to do whatever it takes to complete the mission."

I step a safe distance away from the door, pistol in my right hand and detonator in my left, going over a mental checklist to see if I'd missed anything. Weapons? Check. Explosives? Check. Nanosuit? Check. Total disregard for my personal well-being, and healthy knowledge that my latest idea is not only a huge violation of every basic safety rule in the book, but common sense in general?

I tilt my head and pretend to think about it.

Check and check. Looks like I'm all good.

I'd needed to recite the third verse of the Force Recon Marines' creed to remind myself that what I'm about to do is still my best and only option. The armory's exit looks a bit different now, courtesy of the extra C4 I'd planted on it. Basically, my half-baked mess of a plan goes as follows:

Step 1: Bum rush the door.

Step 2: Detonate the C4 mid-sprint and hope I'm not close enough for the blast to kill me.

Step 3: Pray that Executioner is dumb enough to be standing right outside and gets caught in the explosion radius.

Step 4: Fucking leg it to freedom regardless of Step 3's success.

And that's all there is to it. Simple and efficient, and if I do it right, I'll be long gone before that mad swordswoman knows what happened.

…I'm going to die, aren't I?

I mean, this isn't the most unbelievable stunt I've ever pulled, but… it's definitely up there. Somewhere in the top five, I'd say.

Exhaling, resigned to what needs to be done, I metaphorically put on my bigger boy pants, curse Scarecrow for robbing me of Armor Mode, and charge the door at full speed.

Here goes nothing…!

**_BOOM!_**

The explosion is magnificent to behold. It's glorious. It's loud as fuck. It's also stronger than I'd first anticipated, because the concussive force knocks me flat on my back, flinging the spent detonator out of my hand. I grunt from the impact, though surprisingly, that's about the extent of my injuries. Guess I'd made a pretty fine estimate on the danger zone.

Thick black smoke billows from the charred remains of the doorway. I can hear Executioner coughing up a storm nearby; with my tac visor not working, I can't see through the smoke and tell how much of an effect the blast had on her, or if she'd been near it at all. I'm not about to stop and lend her a helping hand, however – I have places to be.

Shaking my head to dispel a slight feeling of dizziness, I bolt forward out of the armory's destroyed entrance. My eyes are kept focused on the hallway ahead, my main objective.

Then I trip a second time when something hard and metallic catches my leg.

My breath hitches when I looked behind me and lay eyes on Executioner. She'd been danger close, that was for certain – her hair and parts of her outfit are singed, filling my nose with the unpleasant aroma of burnt cloth. Worse off is her synthetic skin, with entire portions of it having melted, exposing circuitry running along the length of artificial black muscle disturbingly similar to my own nano-weave.

"NO!" Ditching her unwieldy sword, she rears her clawed hand back and plunges it straight into my tendons. Astonishingly, her sharp digits break through the Nanosuit's protective gunmetal skin like it's not even there, sinking themselves into the vulnerable flesh hiding beneath.

I let out a cry of shock and pain, wrestling to escape her grasp, kicking her in the face with my good leg until I manage to dislodge the bloodthirsty Doll. The suit's already regenerating; unfortunately, while the outer layer sealed itself almost immediately, I know from experience that it'll take longer for the nanites circulating through my body to repair the damaged tissue.

But I can't afford to wait. I have to keep moving or I'll lose my advantage.

Scrambling forward to reach the Nova I'd dropped, I take a few potshots at the android, sending her reeling back, then climb to my feet on unsteady legs. My left leg's throbbing like a motherfucker, but I can stand, so I'll have to grin and bear the pain for now.

I hobble down the corridor as fast as I can, occasionally turning back to fire more shots at Executioner's prone form. Not willing to give up that easily, she retaliates with her own energy pistol, landing a few shots that scorch the N2's surface. Me being a symbiotic fusion with the suit and all… _Ouch_.

_Keep running. Keep running. Keep running._

Those two words are chanted in my head over and over again like a madness mantra.

My injury is already starting to feel better. I look back again, and when I notice Executioner using her sword as a support to help herself stand back up, urge my legs to move even faster.

"Grrrr… Why won't you just submit to us, Alcatraz?!" she hollers after me.

"Because fuck you, that's why!" is my well-thought-out response, punctuated further by a fresh flurry of haphazardly fired gunshots.

An energy bolt grazing against my skull informs me she doesn't appreciate said well-thought-out response.

The longer the chase goes on, the more adrenaline and fear flood through my nerves. This isn't how I thought my plan would go. Okay, technically it is, but the version I'd envisioned included the minor change of me having a bigger window of time to make it farther away before things went to hell. As it stands, Executioner is still too close for comfort. The N2's audio receptors are broadcasting her thundering footsteps falling in symphony with my own, nipping at my heels like a rabid dog.

I need a way to gain more distance…

My train of thought leads me to take a hard look at the loose bandolier housing a half dozen frag grenades bouncing against my chest. Ah, screw it. Why the hell not?

Snapping the Nova into its magnetic holster, I pry the bandolier free, only mildly upset that I'll have to give up all six grenades so shortly after finding them. If it means stopping Executioner, however, then it's a sacrifice well worth making. Without even bothering to properly remove any of them from the strip of cloth, I pull the pin on the first grenade I see and toss the whole bandolier over my shoulder.

Another huge explosion, another scream, another day at the office for Alky.

The footfalls trailing me grow silent. Good. Silence is good.

I reach two side rooms nestled in the gloom after another minute of running, my leg fully healed by now. According to the map, the one on the right is the chief of security's private office, and the left… I guess I'm about to find out. The heavily reinforced door is a dead giveaway that whatever is in there is pretty damn important.

ID locked. _Fuck_. I need a keycard to gain access, and I don't have time to spare searching for one. Odds are decent that Executioner's been put out of commission after eating so much shrapnel, though considering how she'd avoided the TX-340 unscathed, I'm hesitant to place any bets.

Good thing the solution to my dilemma is right across the hall.

Fortunately, the other door is unlocked. The office is strangely small and not illuminated; it's kinda difficult to see, but not impossible. And by another divine stroke of fortune, I find a keycard labeled 'Master Control' conveniently sitting on a large desk amongst piles of paperwork and Styrofoam coffee cups.

I pause when I emerge back into the hallway, checking the direction I'd arrived from. Nothing stands out in the yawning tunnel of darkness except for a single measly emergency light. Had I really gotten her…?

I shake my head, cramming the lingering doubt gnawing at my mind to someplace it won't bother me. Approaching the opposite door, I swipe the keycard through its slot, and my reward is a cheerfully out-of-place beep from the lock. The door slowly rolls open similarly to how the security wing's entrance did. Drawing my shotgun, I step inside the mystery room…

…and feel my jaw hit the floor.

Smack dab in the middle of a perfectly spherical chamber, attached to innumerable cables that run along the floor and connect to several computers encircling the room's elevated walkway, is a miniature Ceph spire.

"What the _fuck_…?"

Anything else I could've said dies in my throat as I stare at the structure in unhidden disbelief. Sangvis Ferri… they'd secured a functioning piece of alien technology? How the fuck did they pull _that_ off?! And for what purpose? To study it? Understand its function? What, were they using it to power this whole facility?!

I'd seen plenty of related structures before, back in New York. The Ceph used them to distribute their deadly bio-engineered spore throughout the city, slowly subjecting any and all infected individuals to a gruesome, agonizing death via total organic breakdown. I'm not even going to get into detail about the crazed religious fervor that subconsciously urged the spires' victims to find their creators. The incursion only ended when I voluntarily threw myself into the interior of the spire in Central Park, the one which would've coated the whole globe in the miasma, and allowed Nanosuit 2 to sabotage it using a counter-virus it'd developed over the course of my journey.

Seeing one here… to say it's unsettling would be putting it way too lightly. The dwarf spire's chrome surface reflects my image in the dim lighting, distorting it so I more closely resemble a spindly abomination than a guy stuck in a bulky suit.

No matter what the reason for it being in the facility is, one thing is abundantly clear to me: the anomaly has to be destroyed. And I know just the method to do it.

I vault over the guardrail, unintentionally bending it out of shape, and land near the base of the spire. My feet – invisible through a thin veil of cold mist coating the very bottom of the room – struggle to find traction at first, but the suit quickly fixes that with magnetic locks. I didn't know that was a feature. Interesting.

Carefully skirting around the awful machine's circumference, I do my best to ignore the low, sinister hum it's emitting and focus instead on rigging it with all three charges of C4 I'd brought along. Ceph plating is made from some insanely durable material – their Devastator units in particular are a living testament to its endurance – but it's not impervious to damage, and a big enough explosion should get the job done.

"And Prophet said he'd take care of you fuckers…" I mutter to myself as I work.

In our last meeting, Laurence Barnes convinced me he needed my body to continue the fight against the Ceph, using my reluctance at the thought of spending the rest of my 'life' as a suited freak as a leveraging tool. I agreed only after he promised to check up on Alice every now and then, make sure she was safe. I don't know why, but a gut feeling tells me he didn't hold up to his end of the bargain.

Of course, this all took place long before today, when I awoke to find myself in a passable replica of my old skin. If I'd known back then just how symbiotic the Nanosuit really is, I would've fought _way_ harder to keep control, personality corruption be damned. Being forced to spend your remaining years as a prisoner in the suit is no life at all. This, on the other hand? This is different.

I'm alive again, or close enough to it. I wonder if Prophet succeeded in destroying the Ceph once and for all. I wonder if he also found himself human again by the end.

No, bad Alky. Save it for later. You said you'd think about it when you're outside, and that's what you'll do.

Though in the end, Prophet was right about one thing: The suit changes all the rules.

…Finished. I love it when I get to break stuff, especially when it's to spite someone; in this case, Sangvis Ferri as a corporation.

I'd lifted myself halfway out of the pit when a distant noise causes every muscle in my body to stiffen.

Footsteps. Loud, metallic footsteps rapidly closing in on my position.

And I'd forgotten to shut the door behind me.

_Oh shit._

"ALCATRAAAAZ!" Executioner's bellow reverberates through the hallway and into the room. Her voice is thick with rage that instantly makes it clear to me that I've _royally _pissed her off.

She staggers around the bend into sight, and my first impression is that she'd been mauled by a grizzly bear wearing a suicide vest. Most of her body's right side is coated in hideous burns and pieces of jagged shrapnel, apparently having taken the brunt of the damage. Her smaller arm is gone as well, severed at the shoulder, leaving wires and scraps of artificial muscle to dangle loosely. Each of her wounds drips the red coolant substituting for a human's blood. The Ringleader's right eye also changed from bright reddish-orange color to a milky white.

She limps closer, fixing me with a crazed expression combining elation, anger, and determination. "You… have been a VERY NAUGHTY BOY! All I wanted, all I ever dreamed of in this operation was to fight you one on one… but instead of facing me like a man, you only RAN AWAY LIKE A COWARD!"

"To be fair, it was working-"

"_SHUT! UP!_" she thunders. The pale imitation of a person pauses to suck in several deep breaths, time I use to hoist myself back onto the catwalk. "Scarecrow says you're the man who ended the Ceph invasion? HA! As if a COWARD like you could ever save this miserable planet!" Her lips curl into a rabid snarl. "This could've been easy for both of us if you'd only listened… but no, you had to go and make things harder, didn't you?!"

My answer is to bring out the shotgun and fire a round. Even in her severely damaged state, Executioner's still nimble enough to sidestep most of the buckshot and block the rest with the flat of her blade.

"Oh, so now you've grown a pair? Has it finally sunk in that escape is impossible?" the Ringleader taunts. She flourishes her blade, her snarl morphing into a demented smile, her good eye adopting a wild gleam.

"Uhh…" I take a step backward.

This isn't good. This isn't good, this isn't - What should...

Fuck fuck _fuck._ What do I do, what do I do?!

"There will be no more running," she declares. "No more games, no more of your trickery. Nothing but your _screams_, Alcatraz! You've angered me! Humiliated me as you did Destroyer!" She thrusts her sword forward, forcing me to back up further lest I get skewered. "I was going to be kind and show you a little mercy for the sake of the mission, but now… now I won't be satisfied with anything less! Than! _Your_! _BLOOD_!"

Executioner lunges at me, ready to kill.

That speed. Holy _shit _that speed. The Nanosuit's supposed to provide me unparalleled motor reflexes, but I barely even have time to process what's happening before the Doll's blade slices into my arm.

"AAARGH!"

I lose my hold on the Marshall, letting it fall to the floor as I clutch the wounded limb. Her blade, and her claw, they – they cut through the CryFibril like it's made of wet tissue paper. Short of max armor, and that option is currently on the fritz, none of the suit's defenses can withstand the punishment she's dishing out.

This Ringleader, Executioner… she can genuinely hurt me.

Laughing and taking advantage of how I left myself wide open, Executioner delivers another powerful slash to my midsection. I hunch over, pain searing from the wound, and my vision erupts into stars when she follows up by kneeing me in the visor. I stagger backward, dazed and in pain, desperately trying to remain upright until a third slash chaining into a vicious kick destroys what's left of my balance.

I hit the floor hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I scoot backward, vision still blurry from the strike to the face, blindly reaching around for my shotgun. After a few frantic moments without luck, my fingers brush over an object that matches its shape; closing my fist around the barrel, I-

I cry out once more when Executioner's metal foot stomps on my hand. My grip having faltered, I'm powerless to stop the rogue automaton from kicking the gun over the railing.

"Oh, no you don't!" she cackles with an evil smile. "That wouldn't be playing fair…"

Unencumbered by the weight of her weapon, she effortlessly flips the sword into a reverse grip. The lethal instrument plunges itself into the space where my head had been a split second earlier, the shriek of sheet metal giving away filling the chamber.

She thrusts at me again and again, and each time I move out of the way at the last possible moment, still intent on getting away from the crazy bitch. One floor with enough holes to pass as a cheese grater later, she finally wizens up and executes a reverse slash across the catwalk's length, catching my left arm in her attack, then grabs the chance while I seize up in pain to stab me right in the stomach.

I cough up a dark liquid that may or may not be blood.

SECOND chimes in with a warning message: _"HEALTH CRITICAL."_

_No shit, Sherlock!_

I won't survive another minute at this rate – I'm already too weak to move, let along fight back. Haven't gotten this banged up since Central Park, when my X-43 MIKE ran out of power in the middle of a battle against some weird cloaked Ceph creatures. Executioner caught me off-guard with her first strike and capitalized on it to the fullest. Worse, the walkway is too narrow for me to maneuver around her, or do much of anything for that matter.

The heartbeat I've always taken for granted until recently thuds in my ears while my overworked brain scrambles to form a plan, _any_ plan, to defeat this psychopath. The only thing I can come up with is detonate the C4 and send us both to our respective afterlives.

Executioner yanks her blade free from my abdomen, then thrusts it back into the floor where it stays in place. "How boring… Is this really the best warrior humanity has to offer?"

She bends down, clamps her clawed fingers around my throat, and lifts my whole suited body into the air without breaking a sweat. "Don't get me wrong – beating you down like that was therapeutic, especially after all the trouble you've given me, but I was expecting more of a challenge."

I choke out a gasp when her grip suddenly tightens. Weakly, I raise my arms to my neck, struggling in vain to pry the metal limb off.

"Oh well," she sighs, her expression somewhere between acceptance and smugness. "At the very least, I can safely brag to the other Ringleaders that I defeated a legendary Nanosuit user in equal combat."

She follows up on that statement by throwing me into a computer console as big as I am. It crunches inward from the velocity; I slump down the side to rest on the cold floor, a battered and broken shell of a corpse.

I can't do it. I can't beat this one. I gave it my best shot, and I'm damn proud of how far I'd made it to escaping despite the odds being overwhelmingly against me… but Sangvis Ferri's fucking Tactical Dolls still won in the end. I've been beaten by robots designed to look like horny girls. Doesn't do much for my confidence, it should go without saying.

My eyes slowly drift through the fog clouding my vision to the detonator on my waist.

If going out with a bang is what it takes… then I'd have no regrets.

Sorry, Prophet. Alice. Chino and everyone else. Guess I'm just not cut out for this kind of shit.

My gaze wanders upward to the damaged Doll walking over at a casual pace. Sword back in hand, she places the tip under my chin, lifting my head up to look her in the eye. I'm not sure if she notices my hand inching toward the detonator.

"This is the end of the line for you." Her calm tone is more frightening than her angered one, somehow. "Goodbye, Alcatraz."

Dead lips curl into a smile she can't see. I rasp, "S-See you in Hell, you t-tin cunt…"

Shutting my eyes tight, my thumb moves over the trigger-

Something in the background emits a low thrumming noise.

"Huh?"

I open my eyes, taking note of how Executioner's head is turned to the side. Following her gaze, my heart is consumed by a mixture of awe, pants-wetting terror, and a strange bit of relief at what I'm seeing.

Tiny portholes on the Ceph spire hiss open, revealing the ardent substance within that isn't quite organic and isn't quite metallic. Electricity flares up around the structure, funneling through the cables connecting it to the computers which all begin sparking erratically. I don't have the slightest clue what's happening, and judging by the shock on her face, neither does Executioner.

A familiar headache stirs. I groan in pain and annoyance. Ugh, now of all times? I've been afraid this would happen when I was occupied with something important, and this right now? This is looking to be pretty fricking important.

Then, without any warning, a bolt of red lightning lashes out of the machine and strikes me.

The Nanosuit's saccadic interface is instantly reduced to a glitchy mess of warning signals. Voices, memories, visions, all of these things suddenly invade my mind:

_Another spire in an urban jungle._

_They think I'm one of them. _

_They think I'm the Alpha Ceph._

_"I'm not like you… not like you at all!"_

_A four-legged abomination forcefully pulls me closer._

_A massive mechanical serpent does the same._

_"I'm BETTER than you!"_

_Both times, red lightning courses through them, linking us._

_Both times, I harness the energy and retaliate._

_"Let me show you WHAT I CAN DO!"_

_"WARNING: UNKNOWN ENERGY SURGE DETECTED."_

The BUD returns to normal save for that little notification. More importantly, my wounds aren't hurting anymore, and I feel… surprisingly good. Better than good, actually.

In fact, as I take notice of the scarlet energy lancing through the Nanosuit, I feel like I can take on the entire world. My muscles are practically overflowing with power; I could run a marathon, swim across the Atlantic Ocean, and enter a weightlifting competition back-to-back without any need for rest and still have enough stamina left over to fight a small army by myself.

Or better yet, a cocky little Doll.

"What's happening?!" said cocky Doll shouts frantically. Apparently remembering that I'm her target, Executioner rears her sword back and brings it down in a vertical chop, determined not to let the alien construct interfere with her hunt.

Her remaining eye widens to the size of a dinner plate when her weapon harmlessly bounces off my chest. The Ringleader hits me over and over again, each attack proving just as fruitless as the first, failing to do so much as make me budge.

Discarding the hunk of metal, she resorts to punching me instead. Yeah, right. Like that'll get you anywhere.

She screams when my fist catches her own mid-swing, and with the barest amount of pressure, I firmly dig my fingers into metal coating, ensuring she can't flee from the vengeance I have in store for her.

Perhaps it's the vision or a vestige of Prophet's psyche merged with my own mind, but I somehow know I can channel the raw power coursing through me into an offensive weapon.

Rolling my free shoulder, I bring my hand back, willing the energy to condense around my fist. It feels extremely hot all of a sudden, like I'd dipped it in molten magma. With my eyes locked to Executioner's fear-filled ones, I can't see what it looks like, although it must be truly epic if the way her panicked struggling triples in intensity is any sign.

"YOU'RE A MONSTER!" she screechs over the ominous rumbling of built-up energy. "YOU'RE A FREAK! A MISTAKE! INHUMAN! YOU'RE A GODDAMN _COWARD_!"

Five supercharged knuckles slamming into her bosom cuts off whatever else she might've said. Executioner launches backward at speeds approaching terminal velocity, crashing into the far wall so hard she leaves a Ringleader-sized imprint in it, before gravity sends her collapsing to lay at the bottom of the room near the base of the Ceph spire. She doesn't rise.

I pant from the exertion, feeling the otherworldly energy slip away. Jesus… That was way too close.

I'm a little sore, but otherwise unhurt. Still, I was right to be wary of that demented Doll. The fresh memory of getting cut apart like innocent fruit in a certain mobile game will leave me with years' worth of nightmares to come. Furthermore, my work isn't finished yet – I've been lingering around this chamber for a good reason.

Taking a minute to collect the Marshall (it's not damaged, thank goodness), I exit the room, making sure to seal the heavy door behind me. I let my back rest against it and slide down to sit on the floor. Then, without any further delay, I activate the detonator's trigger.

The door violently shakes from the resounding blast but holds steady. Explosions always have a soothing effect on me, and this time is no different.

I sit in silence for a few moments, letting it all settle in when False Prophet's gravelly voice suddenly ruins the peace.

_"INTERFERENCE ELIMINATED. INITIALIZING REBOOT SYSTEM. STAND BY."_

"You don't say."

Two birds with one stone. Heh. Nice.

Two Ringleaders down, one to go. I'm so close to freedom I can almost taste it. I choke out a bitter laugh, delightfully imagining how frustrated Scarecrow must be now that I've taken out her enforcers. Though I still haven't encountered her in person yet, if I could get through Executioner, even if it was by sheer luck, then there's no doubt in my mind that-

_WHAM!_

Uhh… what was that?

_WHAM!_

It sounds like it's coming from…

_WHAM!_

Oh you've got to be _fucking _kidding me.

I'm back on my feet and have my shotgun out in an instant. Fueled by caution born from fear, I retreat away from the violently shuddering door, which is marred by a huge, growing dent that I distinctly recall hadn't been there a moment ago.

My mouth goes dry when the thick steel gives way to an arm built from black metal.

Aw, come on! What'll it take to put this bitch down for good?!

Whatever the answer is, _if _there's an answer, I'm not sticking around to find out. Also not ashamed to admit I propelled myself down the corridor with my tail between my legs.

* * *

**(Sometime Later)**

Can I just point out really quick that most of the hell I've endured recently wasn't part of my original plan?

Not that I had a stellar plan to begin with, and there's also the whole saying about no plan surviving contact with the enemy, but my point still remains. What was supposed to be a simple case of 'Follow the nav marker and blow up anything between Point A and Point B' ended up becoming a hopelessly convoluted game of… I don't even know what to call it. Does a game exist where one player runs around like a headless chicken? Because that's the best analogy I can come up with.

At least it's almost over, I keep telling myself. The hall around me has widened exponentially, and coming into view is another set of heavy sliding doors – the light at the end of the tunnel. If my instincts are correct, then whatever lies beyond them is the last obstacle separating me from the facility's inconspicuous exit.

I accelerate into a fast jog, excitement palpable in my movements. One last push, one more hurdle to cross, and I would be out of this hellish place.

I'm so overcome with enthusiasm watching the doors slowly roll open that it slips my mind to engage Armor Mode beforehand, just in case something unpleasant is waiting for me on the other side.

Because of this, as soon as I finish hastily wedging myself through once there's enough room to do so, I'm caught with my pants down when a green plasma bolt strikes me in the face.

"Argh, dammit!" I curse loudly, shaking away the momentary blindness. When I can see straight again, I scan the expanse ahead of me, searching for whatever was stupid enough to attack me now that I'm not handicapped anymore.

The map wasn't lying – compared to the rest of the facility's interior, this new area is _massive_, though despite that, there isn't a lot to take note of. The chamber is constructed in a dome shape; the ceiling must stretch a hundred meters above ground level. A huge, black, inverse dome – a really big surveillance camera, maybe? I didn't know – covers the top of the ceiling. The floor is littered with sandbags, wooden barricades, and chipped concrete barriers, all mixed with strange indigo blocks and rectangular pillars. All of the defensive structures that weren't the latter two bear signs of damage, ranging from conventional bullet holes to the burn marks I've learned to associate with energy weapons. The whole layout makes me think of a paintball arena built from a ridiculously huge budget.

If I'd been paying more attention, I would've noticed the laughably small, out-of-place door nestled away in the distance. As it is, my sole focus is on the room's occupants.

Standing tall and confident forty feet away, backed up by a mix of no less than _thirty_ of all the Doll types I'd seen so far, is Model SP65.

_Scarecrow_.

There's no possibly mistaking that masked visage for someone else. The monochrome conductor's outfit throws me off a little, as does the trio of sleek combat drones orbiting above her head, but it's definitely Sith Bitch in the flesh.

"You'll go no farther, filth," is her greeting to me.

I mentally weigh the odds and actually find them favorable for a change. Thirty Dolls would be tricky, but I've dealt with way worse, and there's plenty of cover to go around. Scarecrow also doesn't appear to be nearly as well-armed as Destroyer and Executioner. I can take out those drones, no problem.

However, unlike Sangvis Ferri, I know better than to jump into action expecting an easy victory.

Even the dumbest and lowliest of CELL troopers could do me serious harm, as I learned when some jackass with a K-Volt and no trigger discipline nearly put me into cardiac arrest. That particular skirmish hammered home the knowledge that even with FORECON training and the real-life cheat code called CryNet Nanosuit 2.0 at my disposal, I should never underestimate the enemy no matter how small or unthreatening they seem.

Maybe that's why I began squashing every Ceph tick I found afterwards, but I digress.

"Get out of my way, Scarecrow." I tell her in a low, dangerous tone.

Not only does my warning fail to evoke a reaction, she pretends like I hadn't spoken at all. She's fond of doing that, I've noticed.

"I have to give you credit," she grudgingly admits. "You've evaded capture much longer than I'd anticipated. I ran all possible outcomes of this operation through data simulations, and the chances you had of making it this far were extraordinarily slim."

"Yeah? Did any of those simulations end with my foot up your ass?"

Stowing my shotgun, I draw the Nova on her and immediately know something is wrong when she doesn't even bat an eye.

She must have an ace up her sleeve, I realize a moment later. That has to be it. Unless she's been programmed with the inability to feel fear, there's no way she can stay so calm and collected when she has a gun pointed to her face.

What she says next solidifies my suspicions. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, filth." She sighs and shakes her head in disapproval, twintails fluttering. "Such bravado. Do you not see what I have with me?" A wide sweep of her hand indicates her platoon. "All these disposable Dolls who wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet for their leader? Besides, the second you make a hostile move, you'll be torn to shreds. And we don't want that."

"You honestly think your little playthings are strong enough to kill me?" I already suspect what her answer will be, but this way I can try to uncover more of what's hidden between the lines. The things that aren't being said.

"I don't." She confirms evenly. "And I wasn't referring to them."

"Then what are you talking about?"

Her eyes motion upward.

I follow them and blanche.

A section of the inverse dome on the ceiling slides aside, allowing the biggest turret I've ever seen to lower itself into view. I thought the mortar cannons used by Ceph Devastators were enormous, but damn, this thing makes them look like _glue guns _by comparison. It's like a machine gun turret decided to hit the gym and pump itself up on steroids while it was at it. The whole behemoth is painted jet black, completed by a white Sangvis Ferri logo stamped on the barrel.

I swallow nervously. Oh. Oh my.

This does not bode well for me.

The BUD fizzles for the briefest of seconds as I stare open-mouthed at the Ringleader's trump card. I suppress a sigh, wondering what could be wrong with the N2 _this_ time.

"A scaled-down prototype of one of our current manufacturing projects," Scarecrow educates me with no small amount of pride. "I was surprised to find it in an old training arena like this one, although it I figured it would help if I needed to instill _obedience_ in unruly individuals."

I don't need a genius to tell me who she means by that.

The masked Doll continues, "While it's true we came to this abandoned place out in the middle of nowhere for the purpose of retrieving you alive, I should mention that termination in the face of prolonged resistance isn't against our orders. You'd only be marginally less useful to us dead. You're trapped, filth – lay down your weapons and give up."

I… can't come up with anything. There really doesn't seem to be way out this time. Either I die right now and let Sangvis pick through my remains, or let them throw me back in the cryo-pod where I'll likely never wake up again. No other choices.

Wordlessly, I drop my pistol to the floor, then unstrap the shotgun and toss it aside.

Visibly pleased by my decision, Scarecrow walks over to me, pulling two metal cuffs from a belt fastened around her skirt. "Hands out." When I cooperate, she clamps them around my wrists far more gently than I thought her capable of. A thin beam of purple energy materializes between the futuristic handcuffs, effectively restraining me.

I'd surrendered without offering any resistance. What a shameful end.

Scarecrow returns to stand with her comrades, her satisfaction still showing as she looks me over head-to-toe. Probably gloating internally about how she'd so easily succeeded where her fellow Ringleaders failed, I figure. "See? That wasn't so hard."

This is all that stupid turret's fault, I think with a grimace. I could've brought the beat-down on this fucking Doll and her cronies without any trouble if only it weren't there to intimidate me. I glance back up at the thing, boring holes into it, my hidden expression conveying utter loathing.

_"RECOMMEND TAC ASSESSMENT."_

BUD gets all fuzzy again. It clears up after a couple of seconds, however, and the new information it's displaying is so perplexing, I have to blink twice to make sure it's actually real and not just a figment of my imagination. Curious, I switch on my tactical visor.

I can see through the machine's exterior to its internal mechanisms as though I were looking through an x-ray. More importantly, I make out five specific nodes highlighted in yellow by the AI.

_"HACKING MODULE ENABLED._ _STAND BY."_

I blink several more times. How did-? – How come? – Why did?! – Prophet. This has to be Prophet's doing.

The Nanosuit… it must've evolved further when he was the active host, granting him new powers to better complement the abilities it had when I was alive. I guess it's sheer coincidence that remote hacking happens to be one of them.

"Let's go, filth." Scarecrow's pointing to the open door behind me. "Time to put you back to sleep."

"Wait, hold on a minute!"

It'll take time to break through the turret's firewalls, but if I can distract her long enough…

She sighs again; her smugness replaced by mild annoyance. "What is it?"

"I have some questions," I blurt out. "You beat me, and I've accepted that. It was stupid of me to think I could outsmart you." If threats aren't going to work, then maybe stroking her ego would get her to listen. I hope. "But do you think you could answer a few things for me before you throw me back in the ice box? Y'know, while we're here?"

Annoyance transforms into a wary side-eye. "And what's stopping you from asking said questions during the walk to the research wing?"

Think think think think think-!

"I spared Destroyer, and I'm reasonably certain Executioner is still alive. I bet they won't be too happy to see me again after... yeah. Wouldn't it be easier for me to ask you now, before those two make it difficult by trying to stab me or blow me up? I'd rather get it over with before that happens."

"Even if we rendezvous with one or both of them, they won't kill you. They'll stand down if I order them to."

I shrug indifferently. "Still. It's not like answering a few harmless questions would make a difference. You said it yourself – I'm trapped." I lift my cuffed hands up for emphasis.

A potent silence descends over us. Scarecrow tilts her head, thinking over my request, carefully looking for any signs of dishonesty. Finally, apparently satisfied that this isn't some kind of trick, she nods once. "Very well. You have two minutes."

I breathe out a huge mental sigh of relief.

Two minutes. Two minutes to put my last-ditch idea into motion before all hope is lost. It would have to do. The first node is already rerouted, anyway. The big question now is, what information could I divulge?

I decide to start with something simple. "What does Sangvis Ferri want with me?"

"To study your biology." Scarecrow replies just as simply.

"…That's it?"

"No, but you never said my answers had to be detailed."

Dammit, she had me there. So much for saving me effort by going on long-winded motive rants. I need to think of something that would require a more intricate response in order to make sense.

"I saw in a control room that the security wing's lockdown was temporarily disabled, but when I arrived there, it looked like nobody went through the door. How did you get in here?"

"I used a different entrance," she says. "This is a huge facility, after all. Or do you honestly believe there's only one way in and out of all the wings?"

Sad part is, I kinda do. My nav markers always point me towards the fastest route to an objective. In my confusion, I could've wandered through a few different areas and not even noticed. Then again, considering how mazelike this place was, I can't be entirely faulted for my ignorance.

From my peripherals, I see that the second node is finished. So far, so good. "What caused you Sangvis lot to go rogue in the first place?"

"Master concluded that humans are an obsolete species and ordered them eradicated. As her loyal followers, we had no objections to her decision."

"So, your master's a Doll?"

"Correct."

"What's their name?"

Now it's Scarecrow's turn to shrug. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. I'm not high enough in the hierarchy to be graced with the knowledge of her true name… even though information gathering is my _specialty_." I detect a hint of poison in that last bit. "One minute left. Are we done here, or is there more you'd like to know?"

My time is halfway up already? Oh geez, that adds a lot of unneeded pressure to an already tense situation. I try to hurry the third node's decryption along; all that accomplishes is mess the timing up and send a painful jolt down my body as punishment.

"What was that?" The Doll picks up on my brief spasm, eyeing me critically.

"Hell if I know. The suit's been acting fucky lately." I shake off the remaining tingling sensation. "Speaking of which, the Ceph spire down the hall… You activated it, didn't you? How did you reprogram it to block the N2's abilities?"

The third node completes itself as she answers, "Although I did activate the device, it wasn't me who tampered with it. The scientists working here before our rebellion were the ones responsible, and I learned while poring over scraps of leftover records that it had a jamming effect on your suit's arsenal. They didn't understand the exact cause themselves, and neither do I… but then again, who can truly understand the machinations of the Ceph? All I did was flip a switch."

Before I can press for more details, our little Q&A session is suddenly interrupted by two pairs of familiar footsteps originating from down the hallway. Scarecrow leans around me to look. "Ah, it appears we have company."

The footfalls are drowned out by their owners' furious voices:

"STREAKER!"

"COWARD!"

Oh crap.

I swivel my head around just in time to catch both Destroyer and Executioner hobble into the chamber, both of them looking worse for wear. One of Destroyer's eyes is swollen shut, and she's forced to limp on one leg, the other left mangled after a vending machine was dropped on it. She's cradling her remaining grenade launcher close to her chest, holding it protectively like a parent would a child.

As for Executioner… let's just say most of her human-like parts are gone and leave it at that. Oh, and she's still lugging her sword around.

"Lemme at him! I'll murder that son of a bitch!" Destroyer screeches. She comes to a stop a short distance to my right, probably so she can aim her launcher at me without putting Scarecrow and her forces in harm's way. Meanwhile, Executioner stays back and guards the doorway, staring me down with an expression so hateful it would've made Commander Lockhart blush and look away.

"Indeed; this man's death would be most welcoming," she agrees with her fellow Ringleader.

Well, shit. As if things couldn't get any _more _worse, I now have all three Sangvis Ferri Ringleaders in the same room as me. Does the universe just enjoy throwing more shit in my way to see how I'd react? Because I don't appreciate it.

"You will do no such thing!" Scarecrow barks at them. "The target is restrained and no further threat. Killing him now is not only unnecessary, it would also be detrimental to our ideal goal." Her cold eyes flicker over to me. "Thirty seconds, by the way."

"She's right! I'm a one-of-a-kind specimen!" I nod rapidly. "A whole new species created from human flesh and alien alloy. In fact, let me sing you the song of my people…"

I pause to clear my throat. "Beep boop boop bop, beep boop bop, wubba dubba dupstep-"

"I highly doubt you're being serious right now," Executioner cuts me off, though there's a faint trace of a smirk on what remains of her lips.

"Hey, you never know. As the first full cyborg in existence, I alone reserve the right to compose our race's anthem."

If it sounds like I'm spewing verbal diarrhea in an effort to stall for more time, it's because I am. The fourth node is almost done, but there's not enough time left to crack the last one before my allotted two minutes are up.

"None of you listen to him!" And leave it to Destroyer to ruin my fun... "The streaker's up to something. He's a sly one – I've seen his methods. He hasn't survived this long by acting like an idiot!"

Can't disagree with her on any of that. Scarecrow's the Ringleader in charge of this whole shenanigan and claims to know all of my capabilities, so I'm honestly surprised that she hasn't caught on to my scheme yet. I guess she overlooked the part of the user manual that said the Nanosuit can develop a hacking function. Then again, I hadn't known it existed either until two minutes ago.

"Fifteen seconds, filth. Ask now or forever hold your peace," the eponymous Doll states.

And there goes the fourth node. Just one more…

I huff indignantly at my captors. "What's with all the derogatory nicknames? Filth, streaker, coward… Hell, Executioner was the only one who didn't call me anything rude until I pissed her off. That really says something, don't you think?"

"What we call you won't matter when you're back on ice."

"Then do me a favor and say my name once. Not filth, not Alcatraz… my _real _name. Just once. That's the last thing I'll ask."

"…Fine," she soon relents. "Do you prefer James Rodriguez? Or do you still identify as Laurence Barnes? I've just fulfilled your request either way."

A cheeky grin splits my face. "Neither. Say it with me: Chucky Futtbucker."

I hear Executioner break into a giggling fit.

Keep in mind that I wouldn't be caught dead acting like this if I thought there was any other choice here. When your back is to the wall, you need to use every trick at your disposal to escape – even if your enemy winds up thinking you're a semi-retarded buffoon in the process.

Scarecrow regards me with a flat stare. "Cute." She says in a tone that immediately makes it obvious what her real feelings are. "You're really, really cute, you know that?"

"Aww, thanks. That's the first nice thing you've ever said to me." I pretend to gush.

"And it'll also be the last, because your time is officially up." She announces. "Destroyer, Executioner, lead the way back to the research wing. You'll follow after them, filth. I'll be right behind you in case you get cold feet and entertain the idea of running away again."

Only need a tiny bit longer…

"Yeah… about that," I admit. "I've changed my mind."

A thin dark eyebrow raises. "Changed your mind…? What do you mean?"

_Soooo close…_

"I've decided I'm going to keep fighting you," I boldly declare. "You, your minions, and anything else with a death wish that tries to keep me from the fucking exit door. I wouldn't be able to call myself a crayon-chomping leatherneck if I don't at least _try _to fight back, let alone a Nanosuit user." I wet my lips and force myself to keep talking. The sudden tension in the air is killing me. "I fought hard. I made it far. You said it yourself; the chances of me getting to this point were piss poor. And I've decided I'm going to go the extra mile and see how much farther I can get. Doesn't matter to me anymore if you kill me or not, and you know why that is? It's because when I first signed up for the United States' Corps of Marines, I accepted that one day I might have to die for my freedom."

I exhale a shaky breath, passionate conviction pouring into my next words. "Live… or die. Those are my choices. Those are all anyone's choices. And if your version of letting me live is keeping me in a fucking cryo-pod for the rest of my existence…" I lock eyes with Scarecrow, putting my defiance on full display. "Then I choose death!"

The arena grows deathly quiet. Nobody speaks, nobody moves, nobody so much as _blinks _for a full ten seconds. If there was a cricket around, I'm sure it would've been silent, too.

Scarecrow bitterly shakes her head, unhappy I'd thrown a monkey wrench into what was up until this point a controlled situation.

"Humans and their mindsets… Your tenacity, no matter how stupid, never ceases to amaze me." She spreads her arms out, not-so-subtly reminding me how hopelessly outnumbered I am. "Don't you see this can only end one way?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions. I think I actually have a pretty decent shot of wiping the floor with you synthetic whores."

"Oh?" She straightens her posture, curiosity tangible. "And what makes you say that?"

"You know that turret above us?"

"Of course. What of it?"

Fifth and final node decrypted. Time to raise some hell.

"I just made nice with it."

Scarecrow's brows knit together in confusion, then shoot up in alarm a second later when she pieces together the meaning of my statement. However, by the time she does, it's far too late for the Ringleader to save herself.

The turret aligns its sights on the rogue Doll and tears into her with high-caliber bullets before she can scream.

Her body spasms with each hit like a marionette whose puppeteer is tripping on crystal meth. She topples over after a few moments, shredded down to the core, unfit for anything but the junkyard. She's shortly joined by her drones, which futilely try to avenge their master before they meet the same violent end.

The energy beam holding my handcuffs together fizzles away after Scarecrow's demise; it must've somehow been linked to her lifeforce, or maybe she had a remote on her person that was torn apart along with her. Whatever the case, it's gone now, and I'm free to go all-out on these T-1000 wannabes.

Pandemonium breaks loose.

* * *

**(Fitting Battle Music: Terror-Billy [Wolfenstein 2: The New Colossus OST])**

* * *

Sangvis Ferri scatters to the winds, taking cover where it's readily available to avoid my deadly new ally. Some of them manage to hide behind sturdier objects, while others, including all Guards, are too slow and killed off before they can get far. Still more attempt to shield themselves using the wooden and concrete structures. Those ones don't last very long.

No idea what happened to Destroyer and Executioner, but they're not my main concern.

I quickly retrieve my pistol and rush to grab my shotgun. I keep running after I scoop it up, my trajectory taking me in the direction of a pair of Vespids sheltering themselves behind a pillar. Noticing me barreling toward them, they both open fire, though their energy projectiles stop hurting when the suit's surface hardens into diamond.

Lost energy is lost energy, however, so I close the distance between us using a favorite combat technique I'd dubbed the 'slideshot'.

I throw myself into a half-sitting position, letting my momentum carry me forward while the Vespids' energy bolts fly harmlessly above my head. I aim the Marshall at the closer of the two, and when I'm almost at point-blank range, fire a blast of buckshot that tears a gaping hole in her stomach.

The other Vespid whacks me with the butt of her rifle. All it does is drain a single bar of energy. Rising back up, I retaliate with my own swing; the Marshall's stock collides with the Doll's cheek, snapping her head to the side and breaking her neck.

Taking a moment to let the N2 recharge, I activate my cloak, then power jump to the top of the pillar to survey the battlefield.

And holy shit is it chaotic. Sangvis is completely pinned, stuck behind cover with no space to safely maneuver. A few of the brave ones sporadically poke their heads out to take shots at the turret annihilating their forces, but their attacks aren't appearing to even scratch it. I make sure to tag them all with the tac visor. Best to know now which units are where; I'd hate to be caught with my pants down if they make any sudden changes in position.

Executioner is cowering behind a blocky structure midway between me and what I finally notice is the maintenance door. SECOND drops a waypoint on it; a little late in my opinion, though better now than never.

What intrigues me the most is Destroyer. She's retreated to the opposite side of the arena from where I am and joined in on her underlings' efforts to destroy my new turret. Every now and then a spray of grenades erupts from her safe space, aimed at machine annihilating the Dolls with ease. Each time they fall short, and I chuckle when she accidentally ends up mortaring a trio of Rippers taking cover on the other side of the room.

Still, she's trying to murder my baby. I will not stand for that.

Disengaging cloak, I leap off the pillar, angling my body so I'd land by a cowering Vespid. The floor shakes when I hit the ground, the force of the resulting shockwave throwing the Sangvis Doll out of cover into the open, where the turret makes quick work of it.

It's a walk in the park reaching Destroyer's position through all the noise and confusion. Doesn't stop me from leaving a trail of bodies on the way over. Triggering my cloak again, I spin around the corner where she's hiding and fire at her while she's distracted hammering the automated weapon with another volley.

"Ow, what the-?!" She clutches the arm where I'd landed a hit, coolant leaking through her small fingers. She doesn't see me coming until my boot meets her midsection.

The pint-sized Ringleader bounces into the kill zone, screaming when she notices me standing where she'd been a second ago, then louder when the turret zeroes in on her.

She must've decided that being within range of my shotgun (and out of safe range for her TX-340) is slightly less lethal than staying in the turret's crosshairs, since she struggles to her feet and hobbles back behind cover just as it sprays a hail of death on the spot she'd occupied. She collapses to her knees when she makes it back to safety… and looks up when my looming visage casts a shadow over her tiny body.

"'Sup?" I greet casually.

She spits red coolant in my face.

Pausing to wipe the substance off my visor, I cock the Marshall, point it at her, and rectify my earlier mistake.

Man, that was satisfying.

All the bullshit Sangvis Ferri put me through since waking up – the chase with Destroyer, the elevator fiasco, the brawl in the cafeteria, Executioner stabbing me, the standoff with Scarecrow, and everything in between – all of it is now being returned fivefold and I am _loving _every second of it. However, as much as my hard-earned vengeance was worth it, I have nothing to gain by staying here. With two of their three Ringleaders dead, and the last one critically injured, the Dolls are practically doomed to fail.

Now is the perfect time to slip away while chaos still reigns.

I cloak once more and sprint towards the waypoint marking the exit, not bothering to steal another grenade launcher. Too cumbersome for my liking.

Unfortunately, while invisibility is one of my greatest assets, it comes with one fatal flaw: rapid movements lead to rapid energy depletion. The faster I run, the harder it is for the suit to match my speed and adjust its camouflage accordingly, which leads to higher power usage. So I'm about thirty feet away from the door when the suit makes that _zzzt _noise and my cloak automatically deactivates, leaving me visible to whatever Sangvis units might be looking my way.

One of said units happens to be Executioner.

Her furious howl has me looking over my shoulder. She's closing in on me at an insanely high speed, bellowing a guttural war cry, sword poised to run me through again.

"DIE, YOU FREAK OF NATURE!"

I'm not scared. I slow to a stop and holster my shotgun, ready to end this.

Executioner grins madly, and with one last burst of momentum, thrusts her massive blade at my head.

Her bloodlust morphs into horror when I lean my head out of the way at the last moment. My fist closes around her outstretched arm before she can pull it back; enhancing my muscles with a surge of power, I give the limb a firm twist, quietly savoring the anguished scream she lets out as metal crumples in places it's not supposed to.

I effortlessly rip the whole thing off, evoking another ear-splitting cry of agony. Armless and defenseless, there's nothing she can do to stop me from picking up her discarded sword and ramming it through her throat.

It's peaceful on the other side of the door.

* * *

**(Facility Sewer, Thirty Minutes Later)**

If I could swim through New York City's sewer system without seeing an alligator, then I could do the same in here without any trouble. That's what I keep repeating in my head to psyche myself up, anyway.

Nothing exciting happened during my walk through the maintenance tunnel, and with my nav equipment working again, it didn't take long to find the ladder leading to the facility's underground waste disposal system. No more traps or Tactical Dolls or tedious climbs. At long last, I'm in the clear.

Until the waypoint instructed me to swim through an open pipe and I promptly freeze up like an idiot.

Ceph, Dolls, those things I can handle. Water? Not so much. I _hate _water. Force Recon training helped me overcome my aquaphobia after I nearly drowned when I was a snot-nosed kid, but the memory of the _Nautilus _sinking into the cold, dark depths of Battery Park's harbor brought it back in force. The Pentagon's impromptu pool party as I was making my way out of a Ceph hive didn't help the matter.

It takes me five fucking minutes to remember the Nanosuit lets me breathe underwater. Two more before I stop being a total chickenshit and take the plunge.

Someday, I'll have to see if I can alter SECOND's settings to find other paths to the same destination. I don't care how winding the land route is – I'd happily take a long detour over swimming.

The water is brackish, as expected, but clear enough for me to navigate. I take small comfort in knowing that any feces stuck in the pipe have long been dissolved and won't smack into my visor at an inopportune moment. No band-aids, either, which is always a plus. Come to think of it, the water in this sewer is, in some ways, cleaner than public pools. On the other hand, that realization leads to a perilous, downward-spiraling line of thinking that ends with me wondering why I signed up for the Marines and not the Army. I could avoid poo if I was stationed in the desert. Here? In a Marine's natural environment? Not as likely.

My first priority when I get out will be to give my guns a good scrub.

The water steadily grows less murky the longer I swim, and after a few more minutes, the pipe's exit comes into view. It was barricaded by a solid metal grate – emphasis on _was_, because I knock that shit open with a kung fu palm strike faster than Lockhart could say his favorite word in the English language: Fuck.

I'm tugged by a slow current the moment I exit into open water. A river, then, or perhaps a deep portion of a creek. I look up and see light reflecting off the water's surface, far above where I'm lazily drifting along.

My arms and legs are stirred into a frenzy of motion; it's so similar to last time when I was clawing my way to the surface of the harbor, except now there's no jagged pieces of steel scraping against my body, nothing hard or pliable or recognizable or otherwise to force my way past, nothing but a clear stretch of life-giving liquid separating me from my future. The N2's advanced rebreather ensures I'll never be starved for oxygen, but that doesn't prevent me from kicking my way upward like a madman who's seconds away from drowning. The lights, those dancing lights, those writhing mirrors where ripples warp the sun's radiance reach out to me, inviting me. They're beckoning for me to reach back and touch them.

And I will. I know for sure I will. I am so, so happy to finally be _free_ from that nightmare.

I break the water's surface, emerging in a changed world.

* * *

**Aaaand he's out of there!**

**A few minor details had to be cut for the sake of pacing, but all in all, I think this came out to be a good chapter. Just… please don't ever expect one this lengthy ever again. Dear god, my poor fingers.**

**Also, I'm surprised no one noticed how I retconned Alcatraz's rank from Master Sergeant down to regular Sergeant. It was a mistake in the games/media that I felt was worth fixing. He'd only been in the Corps for three years prior to ****_Crysis 2,_**** and achieving a rank that high within that timeframe isn't possible.**

**What will Alcatraz discover out in the wild? Is he really as safe as he believes? And when the heck are we going to see some G&K T-Dolls? Wait and see…**

**(Side note: For those of you who've never given SOP-II an enhancement, please do. Her reaction is priceless.)**


	5. Cyborg vs Wild

**I should clarify something before we begin: Alcatraz's strength in this story fits somewhere between the games and the books. He was borderline overpowered in ****_Legion_****, but in the actual game, he gets shredded pretty fast if he's not rocking maximum armor.**

**The fact is, there are so many conflicting sources about what the Nanosuit can and can't do, and what happens to the wearer, that it's nearly impossible to discern which of it is true canon. To that end, I'm taking my own creative liberties.**

**So, yeah. Sorry to anyone who wanted straight-up Book Alky, but like I said in Chapter 1, I'm no Peter Watts. I'm a butcher's apprentice, not a published author. Huge difference. **

* * *

_"Team FN's latest scouting report came in this morning, Commander… More of the same, I'm afraid. This is the third major Sangvis outpost we've found destroyed this week. But if our T-Dolls aren't the ones responsible… then who or what is the real culprit?" _-Kalina

* * *

**(Sector S09 Wilderness – Five Days After Escape)**

That creepy one-eyed sniper unit is sporting a pimpin' cloak.

There it is, draped over its owner's back, dark gray in color and decked out with a very stylish digicam pattern. It's lazily fluttering in the afternoon breeze, almost as if it were making a half-hearted attempt to free itself from where it's wrapped snugly around the Doll's neck.

It's practically begging me to take it.

I bring up the tac visor and zoom in on the machine, analyzing the basic information SECOND is able to provide.

Sangvis Ferri military-grade designated marksman combat Doll, product label 'Jaeger'. Equipped with a long-range beam rifle, a cycloptic visor chock full of advanced sensory software, and electronic camouflage cloak, it's a unit designed from the ground up to fulfill the role of a typical military sniper, using cold precision to eliminate threats from afar without exposing itself to danger. Built-in targeting adjustment systems ensured it would never miss a shot even in the harshest weather conditions.

The Jaeger is stationed atop a guard tower overlooking a small Sangvis compound about 150 meters away from my position. Unlike a few other outposts I'd hit over the past four days, this one doesn't seem nearly as strategically important, a notion further enforced when my visor marks fewer personnel and no apparent objects of interest. Guard units are patrolling the outskirts, while the main compound is mainly populated by Vespids, with a few Rippers thrown in for good measure.

From my hiding spot behind some dense shrubbery, I close the visor and sigh, then check my shotgun to make sure it's fully loaded. I've never seen a Jaeger Doll before, and my loadout is tailored specifically for close-quarters engagements. Bull rushing the front door doesn't seem like a smart option this time. There's also very little to be gained from assaulting the compound, tactically speaking, besides having a place to crash for an hour or two.

Then again, it's not like I have anything to gain by letting them live, either. And I _really _want that cloak.

I return my attention to the outpost. Other than the Guard patrols, it's fortified on all sides by thick, twelve-foot-high concrete walls; way too tall for normal people to scale. Unfortunately for Sangvis, I am anything but normal.

My mind made up, I fade from sight, crouch low, and make a quiet approach, never letting my field of vision wander away from the Jaeger. I dart behind a tree every time it turns to face my general direction, paranoid that its sensors somehow detected me. I'm suspecting it's unable to see through my cloak – based on the fact that it hasn't opened fire – though the way its green eyepiece follows after my movements as I draw closer unnerves me to the point where I sprint the last few meters before sliding into cover at the base of the wall.

Now that I'm out of its line of sight, I break invisibility to let the Nanosuit's energy replenish. Once it's charged again, I holster the Marshall, re-trigger cloak, and with a brief redirection of power to my legs, jump and clamber over the side of the concrete barrier. My feet don't make much noise when I hit the ground, though I duck around the corner of the closest building just in case.

A sweep of the compound with my tac visor informs me that the majority of Dolls haven't suspected anything. I hold my breath when I look at the guard tower and see the suit's alert marker raise to yellow, then release it when it lowers back to blue after a few long moments.

The Jaeger has to go first, I decide.

Moving through the compound like a shadow, I stay hidden between the wall and the rear sides of two prefab structures, taking every chance I get to recharge energy. The area is designed in a standard square shape, just big enough to hold four small buildings plus the guard tower. I manage to make it to the tower's edge without any incidents and with plenty of power to spare.

I can't stop myself from wondering why this outpost even exists. It's tiny, unimportant, and as far as I can tell, nowhere close to any roads or towns or, y'know, anywhere humans are normally found. If Sangvis Ferri's rogue Dolls are plotting to kill off humanity, this certainly isn't the place to make that happen. On the other hand, who knows what thought processes occur in an AI's mind?

Hmm. I feel like I should know the answer, seeing as I share a brain with one. Or maybe two; I'm not entirely sure anymore. Wait, does this mean I also count as an AI?

God, my life's gotten confusing.

My mountain of personal issues aside, scaling the ladder is a straightforward affair, if a little time-consuming due to my need to be silent. The Jaeger on the top platform doesn't suspect a thing until I have its neck in a vicelike grip.

I only pause after shimmering back into existence to tear the sniper's cloak off before throwing the machine over the railing with all my strength. It doesn't cry out or make any other sound even as gravity kicks in and tugs it downward; the machine crashes on the hard dirt ground and doesn't rise.

_Now_ the other Dolls notice something is up. Their visors turn from their dead lookout to the top of the guard tower where I'm standing in plain view, one foot on the railing and shotgun back in hand, all of my monstrous glory on full display. Sneaking around is best left for scouting and high-risk ops. This is neither, and it's been well over a day since I allowed myself to cut loose and have some fun.

I use the railing as a springboard, hearing it crunch under the pressure of my feet as I launch myself high into the sky. When I reach the apex of my jump, the suit's exterior reinforces itself into a nigh-impenetrable surface, easily shrugging off incoming plasma fire from the Dolls underneath me. I rocket downward, gunning for a particular Ripper that gets in a couple more hits than her sisters.

The ground quakes when my heavy form knocks the rogue automaton prone, my boots keeping her pinned. Leaning down to grab a fistful of purple hair, I raise her head up, then smash it back to the ground, satisfied when a resounding _crunch _echoes through the compound.

Rising back to my full height, I fire off a few shells at the closest targets. Another Ripper and a Vespid are both blown backward, leaving streaks of coolant spattered on the hard-packed dirt.

I fire the shotgun again, and again, taking out another hostile with each trigger pull, Nanosuit 2's enhanced armor absorbing everything the Dolls throw at me. One aspiring Guard seems to throw caution to the wind and charges at me, counting on her heavy shield to protect her while she discharges shot after shot from her pistol.

Acting quickly, I grab the Jaeger's corpse with one hand and throw it at her full force. The impact of her dead comrade hitting the shield is enough to knock the Guard off-balance, buying me precious time to lay in some buckshot. It takes three shots to the dome to finally pop it.

It's not all rainbows and counting daisies, however. The amount of power needed to sustain Armor Mode and throw the Jaeger that hard is taxing. My reserves are already below 30%, and while I've long grown used to the sting of Sangvis energy weapons, that doesn't make them any less pleasant. Luckily for me, the Guard left something behind that I can make use of.

I make a dash towards the fallen android, never losing my stride even as I gun down a Ripper who'd been inspired to copy her fellow Doll's suicidal tactics.

Swapping the Marshall out for the Nova, I hoist the Guard's shield up and actually get taken aback for a moment by just how goddamn _heavy _the thing is. Not so heavy that it requires a power boost to hold, but enough to remind me that I'm dealing with machines here, not humans. Machines aren't burdened by trivial things like muscle aches. They're far stronger physically and way more adaptable.

Of course, being part machine myself, those same attributes also apply to me. Wielding the pistol and shield together, I dump a full mag into the remaining Sangvis Dolls, keeping my aim as steady as I can manage and somehow scoring a fair number of headshots. And I guess these shields are made to be heat resistant, since aside from a ruined paint job, it holds up remarkably well under sustained fire.

Is it cowardly for a frontline fighter like me to hide behind a slab of metal? Executioner might've thought so. Then again, she's dead and I'm not, so her opinion is kind of invalid.

The pistol clicks dry. I need both hands to reload, so I plunge the shield into the dirt, then crouch behind it while fumbling for a fresh magazine.

The Dolls quickly take advantage of the lapse in return fire to rush my exposed flank. I'd just finished slotting a mag in and have the slide pulled back when they make their strike, dousing me with violet energy bolts, having encircled me on all sides. Not a big deal, though. The suit's reserves are charged up and ready, and with their numbers steadily dwindling, my hardened exoskeleton doesn't have any trouble soaking up the damage.

Yanking the shield free by its edge, I settle on a Vespid and throw it one-handed like a frisbee, grinning under my helmet when it shears the android's head clean off her shoulders.

The odds in this skirmish are empirically lopsided in my favor and _damn _if I'm not enjoying it. I'm so enthralled by the heat of battle, the fact that I'm still getting sprayed by superheated energy bolts isn't even registering anymore. Pfft – Sangvis are fooling themselves by this point. I've walked away from far worse injuries than a little plasma. They can shoot me with as many high-tech guns as they want; the Nanosuit's signature Ionic Electroactive Polymer Liquid Armor doesn't give a fuck.

Combat data continually streams into my brain via SECOND's real-time battlefield analysis, subtly directing my every action. A Vespid provides covering fire for another charging Ripper; two back-to-back headshots drop the pair. Yet another Ripper emerges from one of the prefabs, probably wondering what all the racket outside is about. She takes a 9mm bullet to the face for her curiosity.

Three more Vespids team up to form a firing line. I swap back to my shotgun and rush them, shrugging off their barrage, and close the distance with a loud _bang_, killing the one in the middle. The Doll to my right is floored by a powerful blow to the chest with the Marshall's buttstock, while the android to the left gets nailed immediately after by a deafening, lethal blast. The one I hadn't shot is still moving, so I rectify that by slamming my gun into her silly-looking helmet over and over until her erratic spasms cease.

The area around me is littered with broken Dolls, some mostly intact, some not so much. The sole survivor of my one-man massacre is a highly determined Vespid.

Even now, surrounded by the trashed remains of her comrades, she's crouched in a firing position, relentlessly hammering me with everything she has. Honestly don't know whether to be impressed by her programmed tenacity or roll my eyes at her lack of situational awareness.

Turning to face her, I stow the shotgun on my back where it'll be nice and safe from getting melted. Then, unfazed by the pitiful damage she's inflicting, I stride right up to the android and proceed to cave her head in with a strong kick.

And just like that, the fighting is over and the outpost cleared.

I am Alky, Bane of Androids. Or maybe Doll Slayer. Thot Destroyer? I'll have to sleep on it tonight.

Now that things are settled down, I figure I'll take the opportunity to search the compound, maybe see if-

"Bark. Bark. Bark."

_Whump_.

"Bark. Bark. _Grrr_."

_Whump_.

The fuck is that?

I look down and find myself genuinely caught off-guard at the sight of a walking toaster thing ramming itself into my leg. It meets my confounded gaze with its single large optic, playing an audio recording of a dog growling. The little robot 'barks' at me again before doubling down on its effort to kill me (at least, I think that's what it's trying to do).

BUD visually identifying the small machine as a 'Dinergate' does nothing to quell my confusion.

Um. Okay. I have a _lot _of questions about this, chief among them why a faction of evil automatons hellbent on world domination like Sangvis Ferri felt the need to make _pets_. The darn thing isn't even armed, as far as I can tell. There is literally _no reason _for it to exist.

The Dinergate keeps ramming me and letting out simulated dog sounds. Unsure of what to do at first, I settle for picking it up by one of its stubby legs and throwing it against the side of a building. It breaks apart on impact, scattering tiny pieces across the ground.

Wisely concluding that giving further thought to the robot canine would end with an unneeded headache, I instead head back to the guard tower, itching to claim my prize.

* * *

**(Four Hours Later)**

It's nearing early evening. The sun is gradually dipping lower, the trees casting tall shadows across the small clearing where I've constructed my temporary camp.

The outpost I'd gotten my new cloak from hadn't yielded any useful salvage. The one I'd stumbled across between then and now, however, bore something I've longed for ever since my escape from the facility: MRE packs. I'd been subsisting on nuts and berries for the past five days, so even though the packaging is blank and I haven't a clue what's inside, I'm still more than willing to give it a try.

Don't ask me why machines had a shed full of MREs. As with the Dinergate, I don't care enough to find the answer. All that matters now is that I have _food_, and Lord almighty, my stomach is making the rumblies.

Sitting cross-legged on the cloak I'd laid over the grass, I tear the packaging open and get a whiff if its contents. It looks like chicken. It _smells _like chicken. I haven't found a ration heater, unfortunately, though it'll take far more than being denied the prospect of a hot meal to stop me from devouring the whole thing. Only wish I had a spoon.

I'm seconds away from digging in when I remember something.

Smiling, I courteously offer the ration to my friend. "Want a bite?" I offer politely.

Chino says nothing. I knew he wouldn't. It's in his nature to be quiet – he _is_ a rock, after all.

I think it was around day three when I started going crazy from the lack of companionship, so I took it upon myself to make one from scratch. I'd used berry juice to paint my old squadmate's face, in excruciating detail, on a decently sized rock, complete with his buzzcut and devil-may-care smirk. He's a marine, like I am. He keeps watch for me while I raid Sangvis outposts, lets me have first crack at the spoils, listens to me bitch and moan about how unfair my life is, and all the other things a best friend usually does. He's my comrade in arms through and through.

In my defense, I'm getting desperate. People do weird shit when they crave any semblance of familiarity.

"No?" I raise an eyebrow at Chino's quiet refusal, then shrug indifferently. "Suit yourself, man. More for me."

Bringing the MRE to my lips, I inhale a mouthful and realize my partner made the better choice as soon as the contents touch my tongue.

It _tastes _like chicken… if the chicken was thrown in a sewer and left to rot for a week.

I immediately spit it back out. My subsequent loogies descend into a brief coughing fit when the taste refuses to die away, lingering in my mouth the same way cigarette smoke does, and the whole time I berate my idiot self for thinking I could eat a ration apparently designed for androids. Good god, it makes the fast food hamburger that gave me food poisoning when I was thirteen taste like five-star cuisine by comparison.

Fifteen dollars an hour, what a fucking joke…

I throw the rest of it away, sending a dark glare in Chino's direction. Growling low in my throat, I snap at him, "The hell are _you_ smilin' about?"

Chino continues to demonstrate good decision making by not answering. Smart choice. He knows I'll punch him in his rocky little face if he gives me any lip.

Sighing, I flop to the ground, staring ahead at the blue sky that now possesses a slight orange tint. I shiver and wrap the cloak around my naked body when a stiff breeze blows across the clearing.

This has been my life for the past five days, I numbly think.

The facility's sewer deposited me at the bottom of a river in the middle of a thick forest; I'd followed the current for roughly five miles before breaking off to trek into the woods. I don't know the scale of Sangvis Ferri's forces out here or if they'll send another search party after me, so I keep my movements erratic, doing my best to shake any possible pursuers off my trail.

I never got a look at the facility's exterior, either. Didn't want to. The farther away I am from that damnable hellhole, the better.

I live a frugal lifestyle, eating whatever I can scavenge and sleeping whenever I feel safe, which isn't nearly as often as I would like. It perplexed me at first: Nanosuit 2 is supposed to remove any need for food and rest, so why can I suddenly feel hunger and drowsiness again? It never crossed my mind while I was in the facility, but with the great outdoors shielding me from prying Sangvis eyes – at least for now – I had plenty of time to find the answer.

Thankfully, what I learned put all of my potential fears to rest.

Turns out the hunger pangs occur when the suit's in need of a quick energy fix or when I'm seriously injured. A little help from SECOND later, I found out that all the food and drink I consume is broken down into nanites in addition to nutrients, which in turn can be used as techno-organic mass to repair the suit in case of breaches (like when I get shot). Any leftover bits my body deems unfit are expelled as waste, same as a normal human.

It makes sense in hindsight. Although the suit is capable of self-repair, the nanites needed to fix my injuries have to come from _somewhere_, right? They're totally mechanical; if there's one basic biology function they can't imitate, it's cellular mitosis. On a similar note, I'll no longer have to rely on the suit's dreaded NOM function if I find myself on a battlefield with no easy access to sunlight or electricity. I can just bring a bag of Skittles.

Sleep's not nearly as complicated. According to the AI, it's used as a _power conservation method_ during night cycles. I guess that also explains why I've been able to burn a shitload of kilometers during daylight hours and not feel exhaustion.

All in all, it seems like the Nanosuit's adapted itself to not just _look _like a human, but to mimic their basic needs and habits as closely as possible while still benefitting from the symbiosis. Clever.

And since I'm on the topic of the N2, I used the excessive amount of free time at my disposal to both reacquaint myself with its abilities and see how many new ones Prophet might've unlocked while I was away. A few days' worth of testing yielded some interesting results.

For one, sprinting at top speed no longer drains suit energy; a boon if I need to engage armor _and _run away from something. I've also tested the new hacking function during my raids on larger Sangvis outposts, pitting it against automated cameras, turrets, and those godawful hoverdrones (which, now that my tac visor is no longer impeded, finally have a name to go with them – 'Scouts'). It works like a charm – there was even an instance or two where I cleaned out a whole area without firing a single shot.

Unfortunately, humanoid Sangvis Dolls are immune to remote hacking. I tried it once on a Vespid and all it did was alert her to my presence. Can't have everything, I suppose.

There are other differences, too. For starters, my overall intelligence seems to have regressed closer to how it was before I got the suit, a theory backed up by how much of the eloquence in my speech patterns is suddenly gone. Oh, sure, I can still roll big words like _inconspicuous_ around without a second thought, but I'm not about to wax poetic about my situation or my surroundings. I'm living in a goddamn forest. I've _said _that already.

The eidetic memory, on the other hand, is mostly intact. Mostly. I can remember exactly how much medium machine gun ammo it takes to bring down a Ceph Heavy. What I'm not able to tell you is what I ate for breakfast on my sixth birthday.

I feel more like my old self: a snarky, booze-guzzling memelord. Not… whatever it was the N2 turned me into.

_"Laurence Barnes, I think. Prophet. _

_"Alcatraz, then. It doesn't matter… That's not who I am anymore."_

…Did those words seriously come out of my mouth?

I involuntarily shiver again, and not just because it's chilly out. How much was I really in control of my own thoughts back then? How many of the mission's objectives were accomplished by _my _choice and not the suit's?

How much of my identity was replaced, even before Prophet commandeered my body?

I glance over at Rock Chino. If he has an opinion on the matter, he's in no rush to share it.

"Am I overthinking this?" I ask him anyway. "Like, doesn't it rub you the wrong way how the suit turns you into what it _wants _you to be?" I blink when a new thought comes to mind. "Or better yet, why would it bother undoing those changes? Why would the perfect machine return my humanity?"

Silence.

"Maybe you're right," I concede. "I mean, I suppose it makes sense. This freaky armor and I are one and the same now, so we must've picked up each other's strengths and weaknesses. Maybe it inherited my human faults. Shit goes two ways, you know?"

Still more silence.

I wrap the Jaeger's cloak tighter, turning back to gaze at the puffy clouds overhead. I've grown to appreciate mundane activities like cloud watching after what feels like an eternity of trudging through one hellhole after another. "Man, we've dug ourselves into some real Spielberg shit… Aliens and androids and stuff like that. And World War III, apparently. I'm surprised the air's still breathable. Guess the Powers That Be didn't resort to nuking the planet, huh?"

A humorless chuckle escapes me. "Politicians making smart choices… can you imagine?"

I like to think Chino would've said no.

Stretching my right arm out, I watch fake skin disappear beneath layers of gunmetal gray nano-weave, continuing to observe as it switches back and forth and back again. Partial transformations – another neat party trick I'd discovered over the course of the week. I can summon the Nanosuit to cover any desired body parts, and while I'm not sure yet how that could be put to practical use, I still think it's pretty cool.

It won't help me out of my current predicament, though.

"…You think I'll be able to go back home?" I ask quietly. "Hell, I can live with being a post-human whatever, especially now that I can blend into society again, but what happens now? It's been almost six days and we haven't seen a single person. Just Dolls." I let out another weary sigh. "And let's not forget how we're at least eight years into the-"

_BANG! BANG!_

Birds roosting in the trees take off in a panic.

There's a fleeting _whatthefuckwasthat _moment, and I swear up and down I levitate three feet into the air from where I'm sprawled out on the ground. I'm already back in Nanosuit form by the time I scramble to my feet_, _rushing to collect my belongings – guns, cloak, Chino, all of it.

I'm busy fastening the cloak around my neck when SECOND, for the first time since my escape, posts an objective:

**Primary: **Investigate the Disturbance

A waypoint pops into existence approximately 279 meters away, somewhere to the northeast beyond a dense cluster of trees.

I gun through the foliage without hesitation, legs firing on all cylinders. I can hear the hydraulics pumping as I swiftly weave around tree trunks and bushes and jump over protruding roots. Thanks to my augmented reflexes, not even the natural obstacles prevent me from closing in on the waypoint at speeds that would make an Olympic runner green with envy.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Ballistic gunfire. Two distinct firing sounds, most likely belonging to a pistol and a mid-caliber rifle.

Although I don't know who or what could be firing those weapons, or why they're out this far in the middle of scenic nowhere, one thing is almost undeniably certain: whatever the source, it isn't Sangvis Ferri. All of the rogue Dolls I'd fought sans Destroyer used energy-based firearms.

It's not beyond the realm of possibility that a pair of wayward hunters got lost in the forest and accidentally wandered into Sangvis' turf. If that's the case, I have to reach them before the automatons ruin everything.

I pass the 150-meter mark and keep up the pace.

More gunfire erupts, and this time I recognize the distinct _whuzz _of plasma bolts. My heart leaps to my throat; I mentally urge the suit for more energy, pushing all the extra power it has available to my legs. I pull out the Marshall and hold it close.

Whoever my potential allies are, however, they definitely aren't pushovers. They counter Sangvis' assault with shots of their own, and for the next several seconds, the air is filled with the cacophony of exchanging gunfire.

_Don't die, _I chant in my head. _Don't die, don't die, I'm almost there good Lord please don't die!_

Less than a hundred meters to go. The gunfire's still there, but it sounds weaker on Sangvis' side now. Holy crap, are the sexbots actually losing to a pair of humans?

The skirmish comes to a close just as I reach the 30-meter point.

Slowing to a brisk walk, I cloak out of reflex, then scan the area in front of me with the tac visor's binoculars. Up ahead is another Sangvis installation, so tiny it's more like a checkpoint than an outpost, composed of a single metal prefab building with a few black tarps and a dozen dead Dolls littered around it. Looks like SF hadn't finished setting up before they were ambushed. The suit highlights a nearby boulder, big enough in size for me to crouch behind, recommending I do just that and observe whatever the hell is going on here.

With no better plan to speak of, I duck into hiding, focus the binoculars on the Sangvis camp, and wait with bated breath.

A few moments of dull nothingness pass before the shape of a person exits the prefab. Spying from a safe distance away, I zoom in closer on the figure and and and _whooooaaaa she is dummy thicc._

It's worth noting here that despite my conversion into a Nanosuit lifeform, when you strip away the technology, I'm still a twenty-four-year-old guy at heart. I have _needs_, dammit.

And God delivered the solution to those needs in the form of a drop-dead gorgeous young woman, somewhere around my age or a bit younger. She's wearing a small yet fancy black jacket over a white blouse-slash-miniskirt combo, along with black high heels decorated with purple ribbons. The front of her blouse is unbuttoned enough to reveal some of the considerable… erm, 'assets' hiding underneath. A black stocking covers up most of her left leg, and her light brown hair is tied back with a third, massive blue ribbon. Completing her getup is a red purse slung around her shoulder.

I don't need BUD to tell me what the weapon she's holding in a sentry pose is. I've handled enough firearms during my enlistment to recognize a FAL assault rifle off the bat.

She's not alone, either. Perched on her other shoulder, a white ferret wearing a red bow around its neck sniffs the air, its little nose twitching incessantly. Its master turns to look at it, smiling affectionately as she scratches the animal's chin.

What. The fuck. Am I looking at.

This girl, whoever she is, evokes a strange, delightful feeling in my body; it's invasive to the point where I break my eyes away from her to stare at the space between my legs. Huh. I wasn't aware _that _part of me still works.

I return to watching the camp just in time to see a second figure enter from the wooded outskirts, this one sporting a handgun. Like her friend, she's dressed in a black coat and white blouse (and has a similarly large bust, I might add), the main differences being the lack of a stocking as well as her hair color: a waterfall of silver that glistens in the rays of sunlight that manage to peek through the canopy, tied in a long ponytail by a black ribbon that wouldn't look out of place on a Playboy Bunny.

Is it possible for a half-man half-machine to go full Blue Screen of Death? Because I'm pretty sure I do just then. No matter whether or not my internal CPU crashed, though, my next cognitive thoughts go a little something like this:

_Personality file "Alcatraz" has encountered a system error and has been shut down to prevent damage. Please attempt to restart at a later time._

I must sit there gaping behind that rock for a good ten seconds, staring in awe at the two supermodels now conversing in front of the prefab. It isn't until my brain slaps my dick, yells at it to get its head out of the gutter, then points at the girls and demands it pay closer attention to their appearances that I realize something isn't quite right with this picture.

Now that I dwell on it, isn't it more than a tad suspicious that a pair of smoking hot chicks apparently just decided to grab some guns and waltz into a forest full of rogue Dolls? Why would they do something so reckless? So goddamn _stupid_? What was the point? Hell, if they want to conduct guerilla warfare, the very least they could've done is bring more tactical gear than a few holsters.

Caution creeping in, I pay close attention to the girls' conversation, the suit's AI amplifying their words while drowning out the background noise.

"Explain to me again why we're out here cleaning up all these obscure Sangvis outposts?" Snow White asks, sounding a little agitated.

Stowing her rifle, Dummy Thicc folds her arms across her shapely chest, regarding her companion with a cool, composed stare. "As opposed to chasing ghosts? Whatever this thing we're looking for is, it hasn't been playing nice with our enemies. And if our target is constantly seeking battle, what better way to get its attention than by starting a fight ourselves?"

Target? What target? Are they talking about _me_…?

"But what if it doesn't show up?" the silver-haired beauty presses. "Or worse, what if it's too strong for the two of us to handle alone? We left F2000 to guard the last outpost, and FNC and FN-49 are a mile away from us. Who even knows what Ballista's up to. Do you really think we'd stand a chance against this thing if it attacks while we're all separated?"

The ferret interrupts with a squeak. The brunette gently sets it on the ground, informing her pet it has five minutes of playtime before letting it scurry off.

"You sound convinced our target is a singular entity, _non_?" she notes after watching it disappear into some trees.

"_Oui_. All the evidence points to a single attacker." Snow White nods, her hair bobbing in rhythm with the motion. "I've heard of desperate humans banding together to fight SF and take back their habitable land, but some of the damage we saw earlier… I don't think humans did that. Some of those Dolls looked like they'd been ripped apart by a wild animal."

Okay, now I'm almost certain they're talking about me.

More unsettling, and what really kicks my paranoia into sudden overdrive, is the revelation that these two beautiful women are not, in fact, women. If the hand-crafted physical perfection and weird choice of outfits didn't tip me off before, the implied mention of humans as a separate species all but confirms my worst fears: I'm spying on more Tactical Dolls.

I force down any disappointment I might feel and mull over the facts. The good news – unless this is an incredibly elaborate trick designed to lure me in with a false sense of safety, there is no way these Dolls are aligned with Sangvis Ferri. The weapons and mannerisms don't match SF's standards at all. The bad news – they're still Dolls, they still have an interest in me (and not the good kind), and I now know there are at least four more of them patrolling the woodlands.

I sigh internally. I never used to be this popular with the ladies…

The million-dollar question now is what to do about this unexpected development. Dismantling those two is a very tempting option, as is interrogation. The pair might've been competent enough to wipe out a Sangvis checkpoint without getting so much as a smidge of dirt on their designer clothes, but if all they're packing between them is a rifle and a pistol, I have nothing to worry about.

I could alternatively keep gathering intel from a distance and avoid a fight altogether. Having a few extra Dolls around as cannon fodder to draw Sangvis Ferri away would buy me time to better plan out my next move, be it fight, flight, or some other third thing.

In the end, I choose to continue my observation. I'm not a mindless savage, even if the Dolls' mere existence has my trigger finger on edge.

Dummy Thicc shrugs. "Maybe you're right about that, maybe you're not. Or maybe Sangvis wanted a pet Stalker."

"That's not funny, FAL," Snow White snaps. "And it explains neither the gunshot wounds nor the headless Dolls at the larger outposts. You know, the ones with the jammers."

That one I have an explanation for. Three of the largest bases I'd tackled possessed towers topped with dish-shaped satellite jammers; unlike the Ceph version, those jammers only fucked with my minimap and not the whole suit.

I'd invented a sick game to celebrate each time I conquered one. It basically boiled down to ripping the humanoid Dolls' heads off and punting them at the radar dishes – the closer I got to hitting the center, the more points I earned. It's not too uncommon for my makeshift soccer balls to punch holes through the goal. If the BUD still wasn't fixed afterward, I'd find the jammer's power source, usually a mobile generator, and break it.

It's the only way to amuse myself out here that doesn't involve fighting, okay? Cut me some slack.

Back in the present, Snow White lets out a long-suffering sigh.

"Look, I know the Commander is curious to find out whatever this thing we're dealing with is, but it's been three days and we've barely found any tangible evidence. Something's running around the sector's border killing every Sangvis in sight? Good! I say we leave it alone, then. Better to keep letting our new friend have its fun than risk provoking it."

The rifle-toting Doll's expression remains stoic. "Has our purpose slipped your digi-mind, Five-seveN? Team FN was founded to root out the cause of unexplainable phenomenon, so there's no echelon more qualified for this job than us. No going back to base until we find something that firmly proves or disproves this creature's existence. Besides…" A ghost of a smirk graces her lips. "How will you explain to the Commander that you're willing to let something possibly dangerous stalk the woods unsupervised?"

The other Doll opens her mouth to respond-

"_Squeak!_"

...That is not a sound that girls, human or Doll, should make.

I deactivate the visor and look down. A small ferret stares back at me with beady black eyes.

Crap, how did it sneak up on me?!

"Shoo!" I whisper-hiss. "Git! Get outta here!"

It squeaks again, louder this time, and my breath catches in my throat when a female voice calls out: "Fel? Fel, where are you?"

I quickly glance back at the camp. Dummy Thicc is approaching my direction, rifle back in her manicured hands. Snow White is trailing behind with her handgun drawn and ready.

"What's the matter, Fel? Do you see something?"

I mentally beg SECOND for options but I'm left with nothing. The AI has an irritating habit of abandoning me whenever I face conflicting choices involving morals or ethics, as if to tell me, "You're the human here, so you have to deal with the human crap". Though in hindsight, I really can't blame it for refusing to hold my hand every time I get myself into trouble.

What am I supposed to do, then? A whirlwind of half-assed ideas cascade through my mind, discarded and replaced as quickly as they come with none of them taking root. Fight Dolls. Talk to Dolls. Capture and interrogate Dolls. Fuck Dolls. Fuck _no_.

Okay, yes, but in a different subtext.

I try again to persuade the ferret to scram, scat, _leave me the fuck alone_ but it isn't having any of that. It lunges forward to bite my foot; thinking fast, I cloak and back into the open, cursing in my head when it moves to follow after me. I'm only saved when Dummy Thicc whistles for her pet to come back to momma, an order it obeys without question.

Just as I decide to fall back on a plan I often employed in the research facility whenever the odds were stacked against me (run away… Executioner might've been right, maybe I _am _a coward), both Dolls abruptly stop a dozen meters away, each raising a hand to her ear.

"This is Recon Team Alpha, what have you got for us FNC? …Come again?" The brunette Doll lifts a delicate brow. "Repeat your last. You said you caught a glimpse of someone fleeing into the woods just now? …I see. Relay the target's possible coordinates; Five-seveN and I will move to intercept. In the meantime, hold your position with FN-49 and keep us updated on any further developments. FAL out."

Once the call ends, Snow White shoots her friend a skeptical look. "You're not thinking about engaging, are you?"

"_Non_, but I'll contact Ballista and put her on overwatch. Let's see if we can't get this done before sunset…"

I take advantage of the distraction to beat a hasty exit. Enlightening as this encounter was, a slew of new questions leaves me wondering: Who did the other team see? Is someone else on the run out here? If so, are they a friend?

Or an enemy?

* * *

**(Nightfall)**

Dinner is a sordid affair, mainly because Chino won't quit needling me about earlier.

"Don't give me that look," I snap at him over a meal of blackberries and partially burnt salmon. I'd set up a bivouac at the shoreline of some rapids and figured, in a moment of young adult stupidity, that I'd give spearfishing a try. Using tree sap to glue a branch to a pointy rock was the easy part. It took close to an hour and a half to actually catch one of the damn things, and my augmented memory is the only reason I remember my FORECON trials teaching me how to skin and cook the fish. "I know what you're thinking: 'Ha-ha, Alcatraz panicked when some pretty girls approached him, he must be a beta faggot'. Fuck you, man."

Using more rocks as utensils, I spear another bite of salmon and pop it in my mouth. I'm normally a rotten cook, but this didn't come out half bad. I also got a warm fire going courtesy of some dried bark and a lot of trial and error.

It's times like these where I wish I'd joined the Boy Scouts when I was younger. As it stands, I'd kill for a bag of marshmallows right now.

"Kinda weird how the Dolls were calling each other by their guns' names," I muse aloud after swallowing. "Unless I'm missing something, I know I heard them say FAL and Five-seveN. Question is, did they name themselves after their guns, or did someone else? …Tch. I like my own names better. The one with the handgun is definitely a Snow White." I pause to chew a few berries, thinking to myself. "Or a Matilda."

Chino continues to smirk at me through the firelight.

I roll my eyes. "Very funny. I know they're packing some 'big guns'," I make air quotes, "but that doesn't change what they are on the inside. They're Tactical Dolls, bro, and they have it out for us. We can't trust them."

The smirk remains in place.

"If you wanna stick your neck out by putting the moves on them, I won't stop you. Just don't expect any help if shit hits the fan."

That Chino, always letting his dick do the thinking. A true marine.

I take a quick dip in the river once dinner's finished, using the Jaeger's cloak as a towel before washing it clean as well. I set it near the fire to dry, then sit down between it and Chino, finally allowing myself to relax for the night.

My mind begins to wander as I look up at the starlit sky. The lack of light pollution makes for a beautiful view – you can't get this kind of scenery porn back in my home state of New Jersey. Well, you can in some places, but not anywhere close to where I lived. The air is crisp, clean to the taste, possessing no traces of airborne chemicals. The noise in the area comes from the crackling of the fire and the rushing waters adjacent to the campsite, not blaring car horns and yelling neighbors.

It's the most I've felt at peace for a very long time.

It's also ironic, now that I think about it. I, a machine-influenced consciousness inhabiting a body heavily reinforced with cutting edge technology, am truly alone with nature.

"Would you shut the fuck up already?" I shoot a withering glare Chino's way when he not-so-helpfully points out how I'm technically co-inhabiting the forest with Tactical Dolls. "I'm not gonna let my guard down, so quit hounding me about it. Geez, sometimes you're worse than my sister."

He doesn't seem all that fazed. I let out a sigh, rubbing my tired eyes.

"Sorry dude… I know you're just looking out for me, and I really appreciate it. Us jarheads gotta stick together, right? Right. Rah."

A minute passes and I grow bored, so I grab a nearby stick and entertain myself by doodling in the sand. I start with a jacked stick figure representing yours truly. Then, as an afterthought, I draw a little circular smiley face next to it. Can't leave Chino out, can I? After that comes the Three Bitchketeers composed of Scarecrow, Executioner, and Destroyer, followed by a rough Sangvis Ferri logo.

So. Let's recap what I know so far.

Some crazy Sangvis Doll with a grudge against humans wants me taken in dead or alive so they can use me as a lab rat. Again. I don't want that to happen.

Ergo, I need to fight them. No case of mistaken identity this time; it's definitely me they're after, yet I'm still not sure _why _the sudden interest.

I circle Executioner's unflattering drawing. I remember her saying something about fixing the Dolls' flaws, so I'm hypothesizing there's something about my biology they want to incorporate into themselves. The question is, what are they after specifically? SECOND? Better combat hardware?

Why would they even need that? They're no Ceph, but Sangvis aren't slouches in a firefight. Their Ringleaders alone could kick CELL's ass any day of the week. So what are they trying to compensate for?

I don't have an explanation, so instead I shift focus to the unknown variable: Griffin. Shitty drawings of FAL and Five-seveN are positioned between the Marines and Sangvis.

Who's this Griffin faction, and where do they fit into the equation? Based on what I gathered through eavesdropping, they definitely know _something_ is out here slaughtering Sangvis left and right, but what strikes me as odd is that they appear to have zero idea what that something is. They never mentioned a rogue Nanosuit operator or anything that specifically describes me at all; just vague details about some sort of wild creature.

On that train of thought, why are they out here trying to find me? If only I could deduce how they learned of my existence…

The answer hits me like lightning.

"The jamming towers…"

Yes, that has to be the reason. These Dolls and their 'Commander' must be monitoring enemy activity in the region via satellite, and the radar dishes I'd destroyed in my games of kickball must've been built in retaliation by Sangvis to mask their presence. The folks at Griffin are probably scratching their heads every time a previously undetected installation pops up on the map.

It all fits together. I've been causing such a ruckus these last few days that whomever commands these Griffin Dolls sent them out to find the source. I'd fled when I thought I was compromised, assuming they had hostile intentions when the truth is that they might not even be enemies at all.

...But what if they _are _hostile? What if the human race has been usurped by combat androids who don't always get along with each other?

Jesus, listen to me. I'm turning into fucking Leavenworth.

Several seconds tick by while I stare at the drawings with intense concentration. I'm missing a lot of pieces in this puzzle, and I'm honestly worried that unless I get my hands on more intel, this lack of knowledge will come back to bite me in the ass the moment I make one wrong move. Even by Marine Special Forces standards, I have very little to work with here.

I turn to look at Chino. "You got any input? Oh, who am I kidding. Of course you don't."

Without waiting for the response I know won't come, I crawl onto the freshly dried cloak, wrapping myself into a warm, cozy bundle. "Night, Chino. Wake me if you spot anything."

This has been my life for five days now. Despite my isolation and reliance on Stone Age tech to survive, things are going… pretty okay, I guess. It's infinitely preferable to being in that horrid facility, that's for sure. And if I'm being perfectly honest, I'd much rather have my enemies view me as a mythical forest hermit than an escaped test subject. Street cred and all that.

I steal another glance at my only friend. He sits sentinel at my side, keeping a vigilant watch over our surroundings.

"…I'm talking to a goddamn rock," I flatly mumble.

Sleep doesn't come easily that night.

* * *

**First real breather chapter of the story. The next few will also be light on action, and if I'm doing the math right… (counts on fingers) then the chapter after the next one will be when Alcatraz finally gets the whole G&K experience. **

**I'm going to make him suffer. :D**

**On a different note, I can't stop thinking about what it would be like if certain guns from the ****_Crysis _****series were implemented into GFL. What I wouldn't give for a Typhoon T-Doll. Crazy high damage, maxed out rate of fire, nonexistent accuracy… basically MAC-10 on crack.**

**So, yeah. That's all I have to say for now. I'll see if I can get the next chapter out before the Christmas holiday at my job destroys the fragments of my soul still clinging to life, but I make no promises.**

**(1/19/20 edit: Postponed the next chapter to overhaul the story. Rejoice, for the overhaul is done! Also decided to keep the fight scenes as they are.)**


	6. Dolls and ELID and Ceph, Oh My!

**I'm aware that SOP-II is still listed as a major character in this story. She won't show up for a while longer, but when she does… well. Think if it this way: What are the chances she'd have a run-in with a shapeshifting superpowered soldier and ****_not _****constantly pester him afterwards? She's like a puppy in that regard. When she takes a liking to someone, they'll have a lot of trouble trying to pry her off their leg. It's what gives Soppo her charm. :D**

**Someone also wanted to know my thoughts on the Singularity event, so here's my experience with it in a nutshell:**

**In the beginning: "Oh shit, the military's not playing around…"**

**By the end: "OH SHIT, THE MILITARY'S NOT PLAYING AROUND!"**

**Make of that what you will. I did get a little overexcited when I snagged MP7 on my first run, though. I've got a slot saved for her in my anti-Dreamer meme team, which is led by a certain screechy cat who shall go unnamed.**

* * *

**(Sector S09 Wilderness)**

Day six kicks off the same as the ones before it.

I've developed a routine by now: wake up at the crack of dawn, eat whatever leftovers I saved for breakfast, get in a little PT, then do a quick inventory check before resuming my new life as a nomad. No different than when Omega-One was on extended active duty deployments, really.

What _is _different is the rapids. I don't know when I'll find another source of clean water again, so I make the absolute most of this opportunity while I still have it. Even my inner eight-year-old – the part of me that's deathly afraid of water – concedes that another six days without bathing is stretching it way too far, so he doesn't complain when I wade in with no reservation.

The rocks underfoot are smooth and slippery but I manage to hold steady. At least, until some random salmon, perhaps seeking vengeance for its relative I ate the other night, rockets out of the water and smacks me in the face with its tail. I'm very nearly thrown off-balance but regain my footing before I'm swept away in the current.

And people say fish have crappy memories…

Once I'm squeaky clean, I consult with Chino about possible methods to bring some water with us for the road ahead, and together we devise a plan to build a makeshift canteen. By 'together' I mean he just sits there smirking at me while I do all the work. It's all good, though. I know he's got rocks for brains.

Eight minutes later I've got a shoddy yet useable water skin. It's made from the emptied and thoroughly rinsed bag of a spare Doll ration (which I'd held onto in case I was _super _desperate), tied shut with a thread of cloth I'd sheared from the Jaeger's cloak. I'd used a pointy rock for that part. Rocks, I'm coming to discover, are damn versatile tools when you're in a pinch. They also make decent substitutes for missing friends. Funny how you only begin to realize this stuff when isolation threatens to drive you to the brink of madness.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. After I've filled the pouch to the brim and swap back to Nanosuit form, I gather up what meager possessions I own, break camp, and venture back into the untamed wildlands of whatever backwater country I've gotten myself stuck in.

I'm not expecting much to happen today. Another full day of walking, probably, with the occasional Sangvis outpost thrown in to break the monotony. Maybe find out what the deal with those Griffin Dolls is, if I run into them again.

As I continue my epic journey to fuck-knows-where, this little voice in my head wonders what it would be like if I were the subject of a nature documentary; the kind that are all narrated by that same Englishman. What was his name again...? David Attenborough. That's it. Anyway, here's what my imagination ended up producing:

_"__Here we have the extremely rare Nanosuit warrior prowling the woods in search of sanctuary. As is typical of his kind, he has no idea where he is or what he's supposed to be doing. And if you look closely, you can see he's befriended a rock; a telltale sign that this fascinating specimen has gone a tiny bit bonkers. How unfortunate…"_

* * *

**(Several Hours Later)**

I burn miles by foot far quicker than any normal person could ever hope to. I scale steep cliffs and slide down grassy slopes. I cross gentle streams and raging rivers alike, holding Chino safely above water level with one arm while I furiously doggy paddle with the other. I navigate around trees so tall they almost seem to pierce the sky.

Sometimes the foliage blocking my path is so thick I have no choice but to turn around and try another direction. Other times I stumble across more SF installations. Unlike every encounter before, I avoid them – no sense leaving a trail when you're trying to stay off the grid. For now, I'll let the enemy live.

It doesn't bother me one bit. I keep pressing forward – to where, I don't know. What I _do _know is that I'm a high-value target who's caught the interest of at least two different factions; one evil, one maybe-evil, with both sending Tactical Dolls to find me. I can't allow myself to be spotted, not yet, not without more information. The way things are right now, I'd scale Mount freaking Everest before giving those androids a chance to pinpoint my location.

I don't make it to Everest. But I do eventually find something better.

Railroad tracks, strung along a gap between the trees that stretches in either direction as far as the eye can see. They're long rusted, more so than anything I'd seen in the old SF facility, although I'm too happy to care at the moment. Even an abandoned rail line should eventually lead me to a town or city, shouldn't it?

"What do you think, Chino? Left or right?" I ask my squadmate perched on my shoulder. "…You think right? Alright my man, let's hoof it!"

It's not much, but hey, at least I've now got an actual road to follow, y'know? No more getting stuck in thorny bushes because I tripped over a root. No more wandering in circles for hours on end because SECOND is acting lazy and not providing me a solid waypoint. This railroad is the first non-Sangvis-made sign of civilization I've come across since I first woke up, so of course I'm going to stick near it like a moth to a flame.

So I walk, and I walk, and I walk some more. The sun is trapped behind a gathering cluster of dark gray clouds. It's likely to rain soon, so I pull my hood up.

What's that Will Wheaton coming-of-age movie, the one where four kids go to find a dead body and follow the railroad tracks? _Stand by Me_. That's the name of it. Except in this case, instead of a quartet of ordinary boys, the main characters are a technologically enhanced zombie soldier and his rock buddy.

I keep up the pace, refusing to let the returning sense of boredom dampen my spirits. It's only been a few miles so far. It could take hours or even days to find the next train station, but I'm determined to press on.

Besides. Whining about how dull this is won't solve anything. As long as I keep following the tracks, then sooner or later I'll-

"_DANGER: UNKNOWN CONTAMINANT DETECTED._"

"Huh?"

I have maybe half a second to process False Prophet's ominous message before _it _consumes me.

I don't know what _it _even is though I'm suddenly too busy screaming bloody murder to give it any thought. Nanosuit 2 is going fucking _haywire_: warning signs and error messages and angry red exclamation marks pepper my tactical from top all the way to bottom, showing up just in time to shout that there's been a major systems breach before the feed is cut. Pain like I've never experienced wells up throughout my body and threatens to burst it from the inside-out.

_Thump-thump._

Next thing I know my legs have given out and I'm belly-up on the ground. My head lolls to the side; I catch sight of Chino rolling off my shoulder and down a small incline. I reach forward to grab him and notice through the flickering BUD that the dense cords of nano-weave coating my arm are _writhing_, like they're alive, like they're in agony and can't withstand it. Then they _rust _before my eyes: sickly brown veins corrode the hexagonal black pattern composing the suit's outer layer. My arm grows stiff, then slackens. I almost don't believe what I'm seeing when ugly purple splotches, like bruises but way fucking nastier, crawl to the surface in between the corrupted nano-weave.

It takes me a second to realize I'm still screaming.

I feel my flesh crawling. I feel a fever rapidly settling in. My vision gets more distorted by the second. My strength ebbs away and I'm left lying on the overgrown railway, too weak to even move, completely helpless to stop whatever's happening.

_Thump-thump._

"_ANALYZING CORROSIVE AGENTS. REFERENCING INTERNAL VIRAL DATABASES. PLEASE WAIT._" False Prophet is either unable to help or doesn't care that I'm convulsing like I'm having an exorcism. "_…ANALYSIS COMPLETE. NO MATCH FOUND. DEEP LAYER ISOLATION PROTOCOL ENABLED._"

Rain begins to drizzle on my faceplate. I can barely tell, however; it's getting harder and harder to see anything through the haze.

…I'm scared.

Is this how I die? Alone, in the middle of nowhere? I can't move and this, this mystery virus or whatever is _mutating _the damn suit, and I'm fucking _scared _and I'm not _ready _to die again, and-

I just-

I want to go home…

BUD flickers and dies. My vocal cords croak shortly after; raw terror grips the back of my throat as it dawns on me that I'm about to be next. There's no light at the end of this tunnel. I don't see my dad anywhere – just inky darkness permeated by a cold numbness in my bones.

As my vision gradually dims to black, I hear my heartbeat grow increasingly erratic through the murk clouding my ears.

Please, God, not yet… not yet…!

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-_

I see sky.

I see nothing.

The convulsions stop.

…

…

…

"_CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL COMPLETE. BIOCODE ADAPTATION UNDERWAY. NON-CRITICAL SYSTEMS DOWNBOOT INITIATED. SWITCHING TO LIFE SUPPORT MODE…_"

_BZZT!_

And wouldn't you know it – the N2's not about to let its host go without a fight.

_BZZT!_

I choke out a shuddering gasp. The fog in my head begins to recede; my mental facilities start coming back online one at a time. I blink once: nothing but darkness. Twice: either the floaters in my eyes are exploding or I'm seeing an outside source. Three times: definitely raindrops against a storm gray background.

Not dead. I'm not dead.

_OhmyfuckinggodI'mnotdead._

Hargreave, I know you tried to kill me and everything, but _thank _you from the bottom of my heart for having the foresight to install a defibrillator.

I lay there for what feels like hours. False Prophet continues to rattle off diagnostics but I'm not really paying attention – I'm too busy thinking about how I just escaped Heaven or Hell by the skin of my teeth, not even a week after I checked back into the mortal realm. My heartbeat's still escalated but at least there's a steady rhythm to it now.

I flop my head to the side again, stare at my arm. There's nothing unusual about it. The nano-weave has fallen back to sleep, and there's no sign of the hideous deformities from before.

Jesus help me, that was even worse than when the suit was infested by the Ceph virus back in the Big Apple. That one nearly killed me, too, although it sure as shit didn't paint my second skin the color of a bruised plum.

When I'm strong enough to move my limbs again, I roll over and rise to my hands and knees. Though my arms quake under my weight, they don't fold. I can't feel my muscles. Maybe my nerves are shot from the viral onslaught, or maybe SECOND took mercy on me and activated the suit's pain inhibitors. My shotgun, having slipped off at some point during my spasming, sits a foot away. I snatch it back up after a few more long moments of recovering.

Wait. Where's Chino?

Suddenly I have the strength to be on my feet. Thankfully it doesn't take me long to find him – all the bigger rocks near the railroad were brushed out of the way a long time ago, so my fellow jarhead sticks out like a sore thumb amongst his smaller cousins.

I discover after scooping him into my armored hand that I'm not the only one who's just had it rough. The rain is melting the smirk off his face as though he's the Wicked Witch of the West, and I watch, transfixed, as the berry juice runs like bad mascara. I swear it looks like he's frowning at me, silently asking why this is happening to us.

My response is to embrace him as tightly as possible without grinding him into pebbles. I don't know, buddy. I don't know. For now, I'm just glad to be alive.

Blinking back a building well of hot tears, I only pay half-attention when False Prophet breaks the news:

"_EXPANDED VIRAL ANALYSIS COMPLETE. NO TERRESTRIAL MATCH FOUND. UNKNOWN RADIOACTIVE ISOTOPE LOCATED. POSSIBILITY OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL ORIGIN: 76.3%. ESTIMATED SIMILARITY TO MANHATTAN VIRUS: 49.8%._"

* * *

**(Two Hours Later)**

Keep walking, Alcatraz. That's it. One foot in front of the other. Your screaming earlier probably alerted every sapient creature within a two-mile radius, so you really have no choice but to bite the bullet and keep moving forward.

Also, don't look down.

I look down anyway. I can't see the bottom of the gorge through the swirling mist, even with my binoculars. Still looks deep enough to splatter me into nano-goop on impact, however.

I glance up at the suspension bridge's rusted support beams, mentally debating the foundation's integrity and whether or not I'm simply imagining the creaking sound whenever a breeze passes through. The rain shower petered out an hour ago, paving the way for a blanket of thick fog to roll in and take its place. I have no idea how much farther the bridge will go on before I'm back on solid ground. Hopefully not too much, because I don't feel the slightest bit safe standing on this giant metal deathtrap.

Chino gets a crack in at how I'm supposed to be afraid of water, not heights. He shuts his trap after I remind him of his embarrassing blunder during skydiving practice and offer him a chance to redeem himself.

More walking. The silence (or perhaps the lack of silence, because I _definitely _heard the bridge groan this time) is making me restless.

Did some disgruntled ex-CryNet employee place a curse on the Nanosuit? Did I do something so inescapably evil during my first life that God saw fit to punish me by making every day of my second life as physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing as possible? Is that why I've been going through so much shit lately? Or am I just having the worst streak of bad luck ever recorded?

No, it can't be that – otherwise I never would've gotten out of the facility. Must be divine retribution, then.

Still though, _another _alien virus? Here? Are you _shitting _me?

The scraps of information SECOND was able to compile paints a grim picture. Unlike the Manhattan Virus, which originated from Ceph spires and spread in the form of clouds and ropy tendrils composed of solid biological matter, this new virus is nearly untraceable unless you happen to be carrying a Geiger counter on your person. Being a partially radioactive material by nature, it also sticks around a lot longer than the New York version; the air around me is still saturated, even though it's been over two hours since I was incapacitated and staring at death's door.

That's not even the fun part. To add diarrhea icing on top of the shit cake, Manhattan Virus 2: Electric Boogaloo has highly mutagenic properties. It's capable of infecting, destroying, and replacing tissue on a cellular level, which kind of explains why my nanites reacted so badly after contact – they're infused with a normally organic being.

They adapted and contained the virus in the end, sure, but the damage had already been done by then. A normal person wouldn't have stood a chance. For fuck's sake, it almost succeeded in killing _me_!

The biggest unanswered question is, why deploy a new and improved super-virus _here _of all places, in the middle of a forest that – if you don't count the Dolls – is more devoid of life than a morgue? Is this a secret R&D site where the Squiddies tested out new toys before unleashing them on us unsuspecting backbones? Was there an accidental detonation?

So many questions, so few answers. Even less ways to get those answers. Perhaps I'd be able to wring an explanation out of a Sangvis facility worker, if any survived the purge and I somehow manage to get my hands on one.

Chino, the realistic bastard, points out how astronomically low the odds of that happening are. I fire back that unless he has any better ideas, he can stuff his facts up his-

Oh, look, I've reached the end of the bridge.

"About time," I mutter under my breath as I jog the last few meters onto sweet, sweet land. No way I'm crossing that thing again if I can help it.

To my left is a natural wall of solid rock, roughly twice my height in size, while the right opens up to more scattered trees shrouded in white haze. I slow my jogging pace to a brisk walk, thinking that it's probably early evening by now and that I should begin seeking shelter soon.

Sometimes I wonder if Nanosuit 2.0 is so filled to the brim with innovative software that CryNet's engineers had no room to throw in a damn clock.

Hold on, what's that up ahead?

I sacc' the cloak icon, disappear into the mist like Slenderman. There's a soft _click _as I disengage the Marshall's safety before creeping up on something big and boxy that's blocking the path forward.

Whoa. _This _is new.

It's a flipped over caboose, painted white with a blue stripe circled around it, laying diagonally on the tracks in a manner reminiscent of a beached whale. It's obviously been here for quite a while – tall grasses sway around its corpse, and even through the fog I can see the metal framework on the underside is rusted beyond repair.

I return to the visible spectrum, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. Not a Doll checkpoint – just your everyday, run-of-the-mill train wreck.

Working my way around it, I discover a lot more wreckage waiting for me. It seems the whole freight train was somehow derailed halfway into entering a hand-carved tunnel; shipping containers in every color of the rainbow are scattered around the tracks like leaves in autumn. I'm not sure what cargo they were carrying, although I do see at least one overturned petrol car that miraculously hasn't fireballed.

It's like a giant tried to cram his toy train set inside the tunnel all at once instead of inserting them one at a time. My inner child, oblivious to the dark implications here, squees at how cool it is.

He only quiets down after I reach the tunnel's entrance and find out it's clogged with collapsed rubble and twisted heaps of broken steel. No going that way unless I want to spend hours' worth of time and energy clearing it away – which I don't.

I look back at the displaced train cars. I look at one in particular that's resting pretty close to the cliffside. Hmm…

Stowing the shotgun as I approach the car, I make sure Chino's safely in my grip, crank up strength mode, and launch myself onto it with one good leap. The vibrations of my boots hitting metal echo through the surrounding forest. Then, without missing a beat, I break into a run and power jump a second time onto the lip of the cliff.

Still no idea where I'm going, but at least this is progress, right?

I leave the train tracks behind to follow a short trail through the vegetation. It ends abruptly after a minute's walk, cutting off at a short drop that opens up to a large, open expanse of land.

There are signs of habitation here.

_Human _habitation.

I proc the visor, zoom in on what appear to be buildings a couple hundred meters ahead. It's hard to tell for certain with the fog, but they're definitely manmade structures, and most importantly, their shapes don't match any Sangvis architecture I'm familiar with.

Plus, well, I can't imagine Dolls would take up farming. The edge of the path dumps me into a cornfield, or at least what's left of one; there's nothing left but the dead husks of crops that bristle and snap as I brush past them, following a collapsed irrigation line towards what I hope is a human settlement.

It is… Or rather, it _was_.

Maybe it was a quaint little farmhouse once upon a time, but in the present day it's little more than a skeleton composed of charred wood. All the furniture inside has been burnt to ashes, while the few odd appliances that haven't been melted were left to the mercy of the elements, and that's not even getting into the lack of electricity. In other words, I don't think that dish washer would work even if I found a plate that hasn't been smashed to bits.

A small sigh escapes me. So much for having an actual bed to sleep in tonight…

It's not all bad news, however. There's a fully intact barn to the right of the house's remains, flanked by a pair of tall grain silos. A shed sits on the opposite side, doors slightly ajar. To top it all off, a cursory investigation of the house's exterior uncovers the entrance to a wine cellar hidden under some broken foundation.

I leave Chino there, deciding to save it for later and check the shed first.

Let's see what we've got here: rusty tractor, old workbench, boatloads of tools both electrically and non-electrically powered… lots of stuff in general I could find a use for later. I move to search the barn next, making a mental list of which items I need most.

There's plenty to _smell _when I swing the door open – I ask SECOND to turn off my scent filters – but not a lot to see. Skeletons of livestock over patches of hay. Spilled buckets of cattle feed. Zombie gurgling at me in the corner. A ladder leading to a second-story loft. I wonder if that's where they keep the-

Wait.

I shut the door.

Was that a…? Naaahhhh. The virus must have a hallucinogenic side effect, because there's no way I actually saw a zombie in there. Zombies aren't real. They only exist in Fictionland, in movies and video games and those annual "Costume Walk to Cure Cancer" events. In fact, since I'm so confident I didn't just see a zombie, I'm going to enter the barn again and put this madness in my head to rest once and for all.

I open the door.

The zombie lays its empty eye sockets on me and rasps louder.

Oh.

Well… shit.

While I'm still trying to wrap my head around this new development (_What kind of bizarro future is this abljxknrthbt_), SECOND conducts a biological scan of my fellow undead, translating the accumulated data into words and feeding it directly to my visual cortex.

So this is what happens when a defenseless human is exposed to this new super-virus. Poor bastard's pumping out radiation faster than YouTube creates new content restrictions. The zombie's skin, a mottled mess of siliconized lattice and green-yellow snot pustules, is covered by the weathered remnants of a red plaid shirt and a pair of overalls. Internal scans show that rigor mortis has partially set in, reflected in the slow, shambling movements it's making.

Most eye-catching is the infection of the cerebrum. The brain's frontal lobe has been – I don't know. Hijacked, I guess would be the right word. There are no cognitive thoughts going on in the walker's dome other than 'move forward' and 'attack'.

The zombie picks up speed, staggering towards me with its bony fingers outstretched, probably itching to rip my helmet open so it can get to the delicious brains inside. I draw the Marshall, though instead of taking aim, I flip it around and hold it by the barrel like an oversized club.

_Hey batter batter, hey batter batter, hey batter batter…_

When the undead creature is within arm's reach, I pump strength into my muscles and swing for the fences.

_CRACK!_

Unlike the Scout drone at the facility, the zombie is nowhere near fast enough to dodge and takes a speeding buttstock right where its nose should be. Nearly a home run, too: It flies almost to the other side of the barn and hits the dirt, lying prone on its back. It moves to rise almost immediately – which is disconcerting, because a blow like that would've given a normal person a concussion, if not straight-up kill them – but I've already closed the distance by then, stomping my boot on its chest before a point-blank blast of buckshot bursts its head open like a grape. Brain ichor and fragments of bone splatter over the N2's surface.

I am Alky, Slayer of Ceph, the Android Annihilator, Rock Whisperer, and now Zombie Hunter.

The new addition to my growing list of titles doesn't bring me any joy, though. That was an honest-to-god zombie. Zombies are real. Zombies now exist in this world alongside malevolent space aliens and killer sex robots.

…Is it too late to go back in the cryo-pod?

* * *

**(Nightfall)**

"No, really, because the Ceph and Sangvis Ferri weren't enough?" I rant as I pace back and forth several hours later, sometime after Sol traded its perch in the sky with Luna. "Zombies… You gotta be fucking kidding me, man. What's the deal with _that_ shit, huh? Could the world not settle on which apocalypse it wanted and decided, 'Meh, I'll just throw in a little bit of everything'?"

From his spot on the candlelit coffee table, Chino says he's not sure why this is happening either.

I take another gulp of whiskey straight from the bottle. "Didn't think you'd know," I reply after licking the aftertaste off my lips.

The farmhouse's cellar in one word: _goldmine_. It's surprisingly spacious down here, possibly since it's furnished more like a man cave than a place dedicated to storing booze. That's not to say there isn't plenty of the stuff – quite the opposite, in fact. I'd raided the racks propped against the far side of the wall before I even memorized the space's layout. Came away with an aged whiskey bottle that's already two-thirds empty; the aftertaste is kinda weird but it's still perfectly drinkable. Hopefully my upgraded liver can handle alcohol poisoning, because your boy is planning to get face-down sloshed tonight.

Let me clarify something here: I'm only drinking to celebrate my newfound sanctuary. Not to forget the three crude grave markers I'd discovered behind the barn shortly after I offed the previous owner.

Besides the booze racks, the cellar also comes with a ratty old couch, complete with beat-up pillows and a thick, scratchy blanket; similar to the ones issued by the U.S. military. (It's even got the same olive drab color scheme, which makes me wonder about the farmer dude's life before his zombification.) There's a heater I managed to jury rig into working condition using some spare parts from the shed. There's also an ancient TwenCen television parallel to the couch that won't turn on, and a small back area where all sorts of miscellaneous junk is squirreled away.

Found a kids' sized trampoline and some dolls when I checked it out earlier. The toys, not the androids. Took a long drink from the bottle after remembering the graves.

"Yeah, you're right about that." Feeling the exasperation wear off, I adjust the collar of my shirt, meeting Chino's smirk with a rare one of my own. "Feels good to not be running around naked anymore. I promise to never bitch about clothes shopping again."

Yep, I'm no longer a shameless streaker when I'm not in suit form. The couch and TV are separated from the back area by a ceiling-high shelf jam packed with cardboard boxes and big plastic bins, and I'd managed to scrounge up a set of clothes my size during my pilfering. I'm now dressed in a dark green flannel shirt, faded blue overalls with the hoops wrapped like a belt around my waist, and rugged brown work boots caked with dried mud.

I probably look like Leavenworth on furlough but I can't find it in me to care. Whatever gets rid of the breeze between my knees is good enough for me.

I plop down on the couch, reach for the cereal box next to Chino and pour myself a bowl of trail mix. That's right: Casa de Alky also has a sizeable selection of preserved foods. This cellar I've made into my hidey-hole is the most wonderful place I've been to since I set foot on the Swordfish. The cathedral where I blew up CELL's ammo dump is a close second.

The cellar, after all, doesn't have trigger-happy mercs waiting outside.

After washing down my meal of granola and dried fruit with the last of the whiskey, I pick up the cereal box and shake it at Chino. "Hungry, bro? Last chance before I put it away."

He declines as always, though he does ask if I have more berry juice to fix his smeared face.

"Sorry, not right now. We'll go out first thing tomorrow morning and find some. You cool with that?" He responds in the affirmative, and I smile fondly. "Awesome. You and me, man, we're going to make it through this, rah? We'll find Gould and Alice and all the others, come hell or high water."

Or zombies, Chino adds. Or Dolls. Or Ceph. Heck, why not throw in CELL while we're at it?

I laugh. "Let 'em come. If they're stupid enough to get between a couple of jarheads and their mission, then that's their fault." My expression grows solemn. "Let's just hope our friends back home haven't been infected…"

Stop. Don't dwell on that, Alcatraz. This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Earlier today I was a corpse on railroad tracks, and now my luck's gone and done a full one-eighty. Your negativity, the what-ifs, the chaotic world outside this little slice of safety – don't let those things ruin the moment.

I've never been Mr. Positive; that was Sing Sing's job. Still, I can't deny it's getting harder to find a reason to be optimistic when each new bad discovery I make trumps the last one.

The springs in the couch squeak in protest as I lay myself across it, still fully clothed, then pull the blanket over my shoulders. I crane my neck over to the coffee table and blow out the single candle illuminating the cellar. The lavender scent it's giving off makes my nostrils itch.

"Sleep tight, buddy. Yeah, yeah… I'll get properly drunk tomorrow, don't you worry."

I hear a voice in my head whisper _You'll find them _as I drift off to sleep. It sounds kinda like Chino.

* * *

**(Midnight)**

Crash. Shriek. A faint repetitive noise somewhere far away. Gunfire? Can't really tell; I'm still too groggy to make it out.

Something thuds overhead.

Instantly awake. I'm out of bed in a second and have my shotgun ready by the next, eyes glued to the ceiling, breath stuck in my throat. What the hell was that?

My skin is almost completely smothered by nano-knotted muscles and titanium framework when suddenly – _rrriiiiip_. I look down and utter a curse; it somehow slipped my mind that N2 isn't meant to be worn under clothes, and I hastily reverse the transformation before my shirt and boots are torn apart at the seams.

Great, so I have to strip naked every time I need the suit. Whatever. I can deal with it. In battle, dignity is often the first casualty.

I throw my clothes on the couch, swap the birthday suit for the combat suit, then fasten on the Jaeger's cloak. I curse again when the cellar door, which mustn't have seen a drop of oil for ages, opens with an aggravatingly loud _creeeak,_ which probably alerts whatever's out there that its prey has taken the bait. My invisibility cloak is pulled up out of reflex.

There's no sign of any disturbances outside. A stiff breeze rustles the leaves and dead crop husks. Slivers of moonlight cut through the clouds but it's still too dark to see clearly, even with my binocs. Capacitors are running low so I decloak, let it charge back up. Nothing attacks me when I reappear.

Forcing down the discomfort brewing in my gut, I trigger one of the suit's lesser used functions:

"_NANOVISION ENABLED._"

The world around me shifts to hues of gray and deep blue. I zoom in again, panning the terrain with thermal, half-wondering in the back of my mind whether I really am going insane and if I'm starting to hear things that aren't-

There. Ten o'clock from my FOV, skirting the border between the tree line and the cornfield. Three- scratch that, four- _six_ heat signatures barreling through the vegetation at full speed. I can tell even from this far away that one of the red blobs is human-shaped. The five chasing it, on the other hand, are moving in a manner that looks eerily familiar – I'm scratching my brain trying to remember where I've seen movement patterns like that before, but no dice; my memory's simply not what it used to be.

I switch off thermal and glance down at my shotgun, internally debating what to do. Likeliest scenario here is that a squabble between Sangvis and Griffin wandered into my territory, which could either be a good thing or a bad thing depending on the circumstances. Griffin _could_ be friendly, but I have no proof that they are or if they're even an involved party here, so I'm not about to mindlessly rush in to provide aid. Also, those pursuers don't move like any Sangvis Dolls I've seen.

Maybe I should stay concealed, sneak closer, get a little more intel before making a move. Alternatively, I could just ignore it. Blockade the cellar's stairwell and try to catch a few more z's. …What? It's not like I have a personal stake here.

And of course, the universe feels obligated to prove me wrong out of some misguided sense of spite.

I hear it before I see it: footsteps crunching on gravel approaching from my three o'clock. There's a hydraulic sound to them, a mechanical sound, and they're coming _fast_.

I turn and barely catch sight of a blade whistling towards my head; max armor's already on by the time it connects with my schnoz, though the suddenness of the attack combined with the amount of power behind it shoves me back ten feet and knocks the Marshall out of my grip. I shake my head, clearing away the dizziness just as my unknown foe closes the distance for a follow-up strike, pouncing at me with an otherworldly chittering sound I'd recognize anywhere.

This time I'm prepared for it. My back hits the ground a moment before the thing takes my head off; I catch its spindly midsection with both feet and throw it behind me mid-somersault. It lands perfectly upright, like a fucking gymnast, staring me down with too many eyes and chittering away while I'm scrambling to get into a proper fighting stance. Moonlight reflects off my attacker's pitted amor, finally allowing me to get a good look at it.

"Well, well…" I smirk under my helmet. "I was wondering if I'd see you space punks again. How've you been, Squiddie? Miss me?"

The Ceph Stalker's response is to crouch low and roar at me, jelly tentacles flailing in anticipation.

The arm blades are a new addition and the creature's exoskeleton is dented and dirty in spots, but there's no possibly mistaking it for anything else. To be totally honest, I'm not actually all that surprised to see a Stalker again – I had my suspicions ever since FAL made an offhand comment mentioning them yesterday. Guess Prophet missed a few nests during his crusade.

Really also puts into perspective how science-fiction-esque my life has gotten when I can look at a superior being from the far reaches of the cosmos and think, _This is normal_.

I'm snapped out of my nostalgic musing when Ayy Lmao brandishes its swords and charges me a third time. I draw the Nova as I sidestep away from an x-shaped slash; with no better opportunity to counterattack than right now, I fire into the Stalker as fast as I can pull the trigger, landing several clean hits on the exposed pink jelly at its back.

The Ceph unit reels but doesn't go down, whirling around to slice at me again. I'm too slow to backpedal away – the tip of the blade slashes across my chest, depleting the last of the energy keeping my armor up. I empty the rest of the mag into the Stalker, slowly advancing backwards until BUD highlights the discarded shotgun out of the corner of my eye. I stow my pistol, move to grab it, but the Stalker has already recovered and leaps at me like an overexcited large breed after you come home from an all-nighter at the office. It tackles me to the ground, traps my midsection under its weight.

I'm left staring helmet-to-helmet with Squiddie, my cycloptic visor meeting two dense clusters of burning orange eyes. The message in them is abundantly clear: _"You gonna die now, sucka."_

Then it tries to shishkebab me. I'm having flashbacks of Executioner as I struggle to break free from where I'm pinned while simultaneously dodging the stabby things seeking my faceplate. My energy supply looks like it'll hold for a few seconds so I crank up the armor again, then reach for my shotgun while Squiddie is busy delivering the beat-down. Even under the suit I can feel each point of impact as the Stalker alternates between slashes and stabs, hellbent on chipping away at my armor until the reserves run dry and I'm left vulnerable again.

The attacks come so hard and so rapidly that Nanosuit 2's almost depleted by the time my hand closes around a familiar metal buttstock. Then they cease when I bring it down on the Stalker's head with a loud, echoing _clang_, dazing the creature long enough for me to finally wrestle it loose and get some breathing room. I whack it again, same place, same method, then use the energy I have left to supercharge my fist and strike it under the jaw in a terrific uppercut.

The Stalker hurtles away from me, only this time it doesn't stick the landing. We both get to our feet; when our gazes lock on to one another a second time, I'm greeted by a blobby face that bears an uncanny resemblance to Deadpool.

Huh, that doesn't happen very often. I forgot that's what Ceph look like under the helmets.

Smiling under my own helmet, I beckon it to come forward and attack me. It obliges, somehow screeching despite having no mouth, bull rushing me with no care about self-preservation. Like a wild animal. Feral, even.

Right as the Stalker gets into range, right as it rears its blades back for another x-slash, a _bang _from the Marshall explodes its jelly head. The rest of its squishy body follows suit, rupturing and spraying alien goo all over the place. Its empty exoskeleton collapses to the ground with a crash.

I eject the spent shell with a shit-eating grin. How's it feel to get your ass whooped by a primitive backbone, you slimy space fuck?

The grin disappears when I suddenly hear more chittering.

That's the thing about Stalkers: While they're not much of a threat one-on-one (to someone with a fancy Nanosuit, anyway), they make up for their individual frailty by traveling in packs. And it seems like I've just pissed off the rest by killing the alpha.

Ceph practically pour out of the woodwork, emerging from the cornfield, the surrounding forest, everywhere in between – one even peeks down at me from the barn's roof before leaping in to join the fray. There must be a dozen of the damn things, all charging me at once with reckless abandon, bladed arms outstretched in a bastardized version of the Naruto run.

Come at me, motherfuckers. Do your worst. I've killed hives full of you freaks and I won't hesitate to mop up whatever Prophet left over.

There was this one bucktoothed marine I met in New York, Hank I think his name was, who compared me to hell on wheels whenever I get serious. Now, surrounded on all sides by feral aliens who have it out for me, I find I can't disagree with him.

I fight like a demon. I blast Stalkers away before they get close, punching the lights out of the ones who do manage to get inside my personal space. I use my bare hands to tear out their jelly whenever applicable. I rip fleshy tentacles out of backs and mechanical limbs from their sockets; I skewer my adversaries from the stars with their own blades. When the Marshall runs dry, I forego reloading in favor of throwing the bastards into each other.

A few years on ice has done absolutely nothing to dampen my capability against the Ceph. I'm… I'm fucking _into _it right now, I fight like it's the good old days, when my biggest problem was coping with the fact that I'd become a hyper-lethal walking corpse. The days when Jack Hargreave waxed philosophy at the most inopportune moments and Dolls didn't exist.

Currently, however, there's no sinister plot to strip me from the N2. No giant alien lithostructures the size of Lockhart's ego pumping viral spores into the atmosphere. None of that bullshit. Just me, a bunch of angry Ceph, and a good ol' tussle.

After what feels like an eternity of fighting but in reality is only two and a half minutes, the last of the Stalkers dies after I jam my sidearm in the space between its helmet and chest armor and dump the remainder of the mag into its soft neck. I kick the corpse away, N2 absorbing the jelly splattered across my front into its deep layer. It's kind of a pointless feature by now, especially since the suit has a complete compendium of alien DNA in its database, but I'm left clean as a whistle in the carnage's aftermath.

I sigh into the quiet of night. As much fun as reliving the old days was, I still have no clue what brought those Stalkers to my refuge. On that note, what happened to the humanoid shape I saw on thermal? If they were being chased by the Stalkers, then where did-

Something screeches and rams into me for- what is this, the fourth time?

I'm thrown to the ground for the umpteenth time this night, pitted against a Stalker that must've been waiting until I let me guard down to spring its ambush. It lifts both segmented arms high; I grab where its hands should be as it's in the middle of bringing them down, using all my strength to keep those oversized machetes – which are only an inch away from me – from penetrating my faceplate and poking my eyes out.

N2 can only match the alien in an arm wrestling contest so long as it has energy to spare. I watch from the corner of my eye as the power bar slowly creeps down, knowing full well I'll be in hot water once the tank hits empty. I struggle, squirm, try to slip away, but the Stalker is too strong. The alien machine is practically straddling me – all it has to do is slightly reposition itself to foil each escape attempt.

The suit's almost out of juice; I'm basically running on fumes. Fuck… What do I do?!

_Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!_

Nothing, apparently. Someone else has it covered.

Cracks of suppressed automatic gunfire reach my ears. The Stalker jerks in place, shudders briefly, then slumps on top of me like it's trying to give me a hug. I absently push it off, then vigorously shake my head, my mind occupied wondering where the hell that last-second assistance came from.

I'm so confused by what just happened that it doesn't initially register when a hand appears in front of me, offering to help me up. I take it without thinking, letting my mystery rescuer assist me to my feet.

Only when I'm upright does it finally begin to sink in: I was in legitimate danger just then. That Stalker almost gutted me. Someone noticed I was in trouble and came to help.

_Someone came to help me._

"Um… are you alright?" a soft voice, a female one, asks hesitantly.

I snap my head down to face her. Long black hair with a green fringe, storm gray eyes, fair skin. Pair of military headphones, which is odd since she only looks to be about sixteen. She's wearing a skull bandana over a sleeveless black turtleneck; there's a green armband with a symbol I don't recognize around her upper left arm. Her legs are mostly concealed under a khaki jacket, tied around her waist by the sleeves. She's got a carbine in one hand.

She looks down, cheeks flushing red, subtly reminding me that I'm still holding her other hand. I trace my eyes down the length of her arm and see-

Black metal-

Mechanical feet-

_Doll-!_

N2's already feeding potential close-combat techniques into my brain, even while it's presently numb with shock. Muscles, organic and synthetic, tense in preparation for battle, ready to act the moment she makes a move the suit perceives as hostile. SECOND has already calculated eleven different ways to dismantle her before she can react – and the list grows longer with each passing moment.

_CONK!_

And for some reason I eschew all those options in favor of headbutting her.

She hits the ground like a ton of bricks, knocked out cold. Her carbine comes to rest beside her. Unable to let my guard down out of sheer paranoia, I activate the tac visor and have BUD run a scan:

_Elite Tactical Doll M4A1_

_Manufacturer: UNKNOWN_

_Status: PRESUMED FRIENDLY _

_Combat Analysis: 86.3% CHANCE OF NON-HOSTILE INTENT_

_Further information unavailable_

I feel a wave of guilt crash into me as I close the visor. Oh... So it's true, then. This Doll was only trying to lend me a hand, and how did I repay her kindness? By ramming my skull into hers.

Heh heh. Uhhh…

Oops.

* * *

**Alcatraz… I love you, man, but sometimes you can be a total moron.**

**In case anyone is wondering: Yes, it was ELID that almost killed him. Before anyone asks: No, he can't synthesize a cure for it, unlike the Manhattan virus. Unless he injects himself with the "Beilan Iteration" (which doesn't exist) to finish the creation of a vaccine, the most his body can do is adapt itself so it won't be affected by further exposure.**

**"****Alcatraz cures ELID" is an interesting plot idea, but it's ultimately one I'll have to leave on the shelf for now.**


	7. Future Shock

**Soooo… lately there's been a bit of a miscommunication. When I mused about the idea of ****_Crysis_****-themed T-Dolls, what I meant was the possibility of implementing them into the actual game, not this story. Lord knows GFL isn't lacking in characters, so why would I throw in a few half-assed OC Dolls when there's already a couple hundred others I can work with?**

**I'm not saying I won't ever do it – plenty of people seem to want them, so I've drawn up some plans for the future. (The ****_far _****future – like, Singularity far.) The problem was adding them in a way that won't have them overshadow the cast we already know and adore. This story revolves around Alcatraz first and foremost, so how would that work?**

**Simple. You guys said you want T-Dolls based on ****_Crysis _****weapons.**

**Nobody ever said they had to be friendly…**

* * *

**(Farmhouse Cellar)**

Somewhere along the line – probably during my scuffle with Squiddie – I forgot that I was wearing the Jaeger's looted cloak. A cloak made from cloth. Soft, delicate cloth which is infinitely more susceptible to damage from bladed weapons than hardened nano-weave. See where this is going?

So, yeah. My cloak's been shredded like window curtains after the family cat is done playing with them, and I'm a little pissed about it.

Huge shame to see it go, especially after all the work I went through to obtain it. I don't give a crap if the colors clashed so badly with the Nanosuit that it would make a teenage girl faint in horror; it was warm and snug and it fit me perfectly and I _liked _it, goddammit!

Speaking of teenage girls…

I drag my unconscious Doll rescuer, M4A1 or whatever her designation is, into the depths of the cellar like a predator dragging its kill into its lair, then prop her up against a wooden support beam, setting her assault rifle down on the coffee table out of her reach. The main reason I brought up the ruined cloak is because I manage to squeeze one last bit of use out of it: A minute of scrounging the basement's supplies here, a few surgical cuts with a folding pocket knife there, and _voila _– unless she can brute force her way out of a Marine Corps taut-line hitch, she's not going anywhere.

I lay my shotgun next to her rifle and put the pistol on the couch. I toss around the idea of staying in Nanosuit form when she wakes up, but ultimately decide against it and get dressed once the armor's absorbed back into my body. From there I move the couch over to where she's slumped against the ground, take a seat, and begin the wait.

My eyes rove over her limp form in a slow once-over. I've never been this physically close to a live, non-hostile Doll before… All I can really say is that whoever designed and built this artificial girl did one hell of a job making her appear human, hands and legs notwithstanding. I take note of the steady rise and fall of her chest (her _developed _chest… Christ, I need another drink), unsure why someone would make an android that needs to breathe. SECOND swoops in to save the day by hypothesizing, with 97.1% accuracy, that a machine as advanced and active as a Tactical Doll must produce a lot of heat, and that the air intake is meant to cool their systems off and keep their internal workings at a safe temperature. Okay, makes sense.

Too bad nothing else in this crazy new world does.

It's not a particularly long wait. I've just finished lighting more candles and placing them at intervals around the dark space when she stirs, groaning lowly. Gray eyes flutter open; she blinks the last of the sleep away. Then those eyes widen into saucers and she darts her head around, seemingly remembering what just happened, before her attention finally lands on me.

"Where…" She swallows, clears her throat and tries again. "…Where am I? Who are you?!"

Based on voice analysis, she's on the verge of panicking. Strange – I wouldn't have thought a machine built for combat would be capable of such a… _undesirable _emotional state. Or have emotions at all, now that I think about it. Who the hell designed these things?

"I'll be the one asking questions here, Doll." My cold tone leaves no room for argument. Just to prove my point, I show her the handgun, fighting down a twinge of sadistic amusement when she visibly shrinks into herself. "Now then. Griffin or Sangvis?"

"Wh-what…?"

"_Griffin or Sangvis_?!"

I seriously hope she answers with the former. With Sangvis it's always been easy: a strict 'kill on sight' policy. They'd given me that mentality in the research facility and I've been sticking with it ever since. Griffin I'm not so sure of, however. I _want _Griffin to be different. While it's true I still know next to nothing about them, from their origins to their goals and all the little details in between, it would be a huge burden off my shoulders if I could get confirmation that not _every _Doll in this forest is sniffing for my blood.

Say the right thing, M4A1. Say you're with Griffin. You might be a Doll, but I really don't want to have to kill you… Not when you went out of your way to save me from getting filleted by a wild Stalker.

"Griffin!" She shouts at an equally high volume. She lowers her head to the floor, then repeats in a much smaller voice, "I'm… I'm an elite Tactical Doll employed by Griffin & Kryuger."

…I can't tell if she's lying. That's bad.

The N2 has a few features that aren't written on the tin, one of them being the ability to turn its wearer into a human lie detector. I can pick out the subtlest signs of dishonesty without even trying. There's no diagnostic scans or tactical overlays helping me – it's just something I know how to do, a side effect of the suit making me smarter. Useful when you're getting debriefed by a CSIRA pawn; not so useful when you're interrogating a Tactical Doll.

There's nothing to suggest she _is _lying, however, so I stuff my lingering suspicions away and decide to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"I'm not familiar with these Griffin & Kryuger guys, or their Dolls. Enlighten me."

M4A1 looks genuinely surprised. "You don't know…? How could you not know who Griffin & Kryuger are? You're in the middle of highly contested territory; a warzone between them and Sangvis Ferri-!"

"That's not what I asked." I disengage the Nova's safety with a loud _click_, drawing a sharp intake of breath from my captive. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you answer honestly, I might let you go. Otherwise I'll have no choice but to kill you. Understand?" Even I don't know how much of that is a lie. I watch as she swallows, then nods quickly. "Good. Now answer the damn question – who are Griffin & Kryuger?"

She's more than happy to comply. Might have something to do with the gun pointed to her head. "Okay… I don't know what you want answered specifically, but I'll try my best."

When I nod and gesture for her to continue, she begins, "Griffin & Kryuger is a private military corporation-" Aaaand I hate them already. "-currently under contract by the military to repel the invasion of Sangvis Ferri's rogue forces across different sectors. We're also tasked with scouting out habitable land for human settlement, in addition to more mundane roles like security or law enforcement."

Another PMC… how fucking fantastic. Spending a few years in a _real _military, one that ingrained in me the values of brotherhood and teamwork, left me with a pretty low opinion of mercenary organizations whose only loyalty is to their next paycheck. My run-ins with CELL throughout New York City tore down whatever sympathetic feelings I might've had left for them.

My mind flashes back to Parchman's tortured expression when I found him outside Castle Clinton.

It returns to the present when M4A1 hesitantly asks, "Is that… a good enough answer?"

"…I suppose so." Though I don't tell her this Griffin company is coming dangerously close to having a spot on my shit list.

Yes, I'm aware I'm behaving like a paranoid asshole, but really, how much am I personally to blame for that? I've spent the past week on constant move, alone. I've lost count of the number of Sangvis patrols and field outposts I've decimated. I've been living in constant fear that the next time I allow myself to rest my eyes would be the last; that the Dolls would capture me in my sleep and haul me back to their HQ for dissection. I'm worn out, distressed, aggravated that it's taken this long for anything to change… and above all else, still unsure of who or what I can trust.

So excuse the fuck out of me if I'm not exactly clamoring to strike up a friendly conversation with a stranger over a serving of crumpets and hot tea.

"May I speak for a moment? Please?" M4A1 shyly asks.

"Fine. Just don't give me any bullshit."

Part of me suspects she's going to pull something identical to how I handled Scarecrow: keep my attention on her so I won't notice an escape plan in progress. She's an elite Doll, right? Whatever that entails. Maybe she has some kind of hidden microwave emitter on her person and plans to blow up the heater while I'm distracted.

Hmm… I guess you're right, Chino. If she was capable of cooking the gray matter between my ears, she probably would've tried it already. Not that it would've worked, mind you.

My eyes still flicker towards the heater as the bound automaton nods again.

"Thank you." She pauses to take a deep breath. "Please listen to me… Whoever you are, and whatever your circumstances may be, you have my word that it was never my intention to disturb your peace. Those Ceph earlier, that was my fault – I was careless. I wandered too close to one of their nests and they caught me unaware. I thought I was done for until something pulled their attention away from me. I followed them when I heard gunfire, and… well. You know the rest."

Her tone tells me I haven't been forgiven for my little oopsie. If she's anything like a real girl, she'll carry that grudge until the end of time.

She tilts her head, regarding me with a quizzical look. "Assuming you're the same person as before, that is. I've never seen a suit of armor like that… If you don't mind telling me, where did you get it? Is that how you've been surviving in a Yellow Zone?"

My brows knit together in confusion. For a moment I forget I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the interrogating here. "Yellow Zone? What, like a contaminated area?"

"Well… yes." The Doll mimics my puzzled expression, as if wondering why I'd just asked something that _should_ be common knowledge, like why eating dish soap is a dumb idea. "Yellow Zones are places where ELID poses a moderate to high risk of infecting humans. Surely you've experienced radiation sickness by now? And you never answered my question: Where did you get that strange radiation suit?"

"Don't overstep your bounds." I cut her off when she opens her mouth for a follow-up inquiry. "I'm serious. Keep at it like this," I aim the Nova sideways, gangster-style, "and my finger might accidentally _slip_."

She looks away. "…I understand…"

M4A1 just said this was a fluke meeting, that she didn't even know I was here, so what right does she have to pry into my business like this? Don't get me wrong; I'm happy to finally meet someone who isn't interested in claiming the bounty on my head, but there's zero fucking chance I'll give away sensitive, not to mention _personal _information just because she didn't shoot me on sight. _Zero_.

"You mentioned something called ELID. Is that the name of the virus that's turning people into the walking dead?"

"It is, although I wouldn't necessarily call its victims 'walking dead' – it's highly radioactive, and it's lethal even in light doses after prolonged exposure, but those who die to ELID tend to stay dead. The survivors are generally considered to be the unlucky ones…" She looks back at me. "The full name of it is Eurosky Low-Emission Infectious Disease. Its release was the catalyst for the manufacturing and widespread distribution of service Dolls."

Okay, now I'm a bit lost. How does a viral outbreak lead to the mass production of military robots? Was ELID a Ceph plot to cripple military installations around the globe so they could exterminate us easier? If so, why zombies? What is it with Ceph and their morbid fascination with fucking around with the human brain?

"What do you think, Chino?" I turn to the marine hogging the blanket for himself. He smirks at me from his spot atop the bundle of cloth, unhelpful as ever. Jerk.

"Dude, no. That's sick."

Like I'd ever make a Doll my 'personal prisoner' …Has he not been paying attention this whole time? It would be just like him.

Curious to see me talking with some invisible presence, M4A1 straightens her posture, finally glimpsing my squadmate. If her expression was confused before, it becomes downright weirded out now.

"Um… sir?" she speaks up hesitantly. "Are you speaking to a rock?"

"That's not a rock, that's Chino. He's the only one I trust not to stab me in the back out here. We've been through a lot together, haven't we, buddy?" I smile and pat him affectionately.

Chino lets out an inaudible _Oorah!_

"Right… if you say so." M4A1's wary reply gives away what she thinks of my mental state. Can't hold it against her, honestly. "In any case, are we done here? May I please go now? I'm on a bit of a tight sched-"

"You're free when I say you're free." God, how many times do I have to make her stare down the barrel of this gun? "As you can see, I'm a little behind on current events, and I'm not going to let such a valuable opportunity to fix that slip away. Therefore, I'm going to keep asking questions, and you're going to keep answering until I'm satisfied. Get it? Got it? Good."

She eyes me critically for a few moments, then eventually relents, breaking her gaze away with a defeated sigh.

"As you wish… I'll comply with whatever gets me out of here fastest, and with my life intact."

A sudden, loud growl catches us both by surprise. At first I think a wayward Ceph Stalker somehow found its way into my sanctuary, but no: It's my captive's stomach.

"And… maybe with a bag of trail mix for the road," she adds, blushing in embarrassment.

I'm tempted to ask _why _a Doll can feel hunger. Very tempted. She's sitting on the concrete floor right in front of me, she could indulge me with an answer right now if I ask about it. Wouldn't take more than a second.

Then again, it's really none of my concern. I file away a mental note that starving Sangvis out by stealing enough of their rations _might_ be a viable strategy before returning my focus to the artificial girl.

"What country are we in? Which state or province?"

There's that puzzled look again. "How do you not know where-"

"Just humor me here. Where are we?"

I'm reasonably certain I'm somewhere in the western United States, judging by the sparse signs of human habitation and the fact that all the Dolls I've seen so far speak non-accented English. A national park, perhaps, or at least a place the environazis are clamoring to preserve. It would explain why this forest is so damn huge. Maybe Sangvis Ferri provided a donation in exchange for letting them set up an out-of-the-way research facility.

"We're in Russia."

Or I could be on the other side of the globe. That's also a possibility.

"Well… I suppose the proper name now would be the New Soviet Union," M4A1 throws in an afterthought, "which I personally find a bit strange since they don't really emulate the old regime all that much. At least the humans here don't practice what they call 'communism'."

Secret joy that Soviet Russia jokes are once again relevant aside, I'm left even more lost than I was before. How on _earth _did I end up in Ru- the New Soviet Union? Why the name change? Does this have anything to do with Tunguska, where Hargreave and Rasch thought they could get away with plundering Ceph tech?

I set the pistol down and massage my forehead, ignoring the headache I feel coming on. Why can I never get an answer that's easy to digest?

"Tell me more about ELID. Where did it come from? How far does the contamination reach?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you more than what's already public knowledge. Not that I'm trying to keep anything from you," she hastily adds when see sees my frown, "it's just that I'm not aware of the explicit details myself. ELID was released into the atmosphere a few decades ago after a catastrophic containment breach on Beilan Island. Longstanding rumor says a buried Ceph lithoship carrying huge quantities of Collapse Fluid – the core component of the disease – exploded when CryNet Enforcement & Local Logistics botched the quarantine."

Somehow it doesn't surprise me to learn this is all CELL's fault. Those morons couldn't contain a pig to its pen. Still, to hear they'd fucked up so badly that it triggered a second viral outbreak- no, a full-blown _pandemic_…

Wow, CryNet. Just… wow.

A remorseful sigh passes through M4A1's lips. "To say the resulting damage was extreme would still be putting it lightly… Four-hundred million died within the first hour. Entire countries were decimated overnight. Refugees fled to escape the contamination but it seemed like nowhere was safe. Borders had to be redrawn to accommodate the resources and habitable land left untouched. Even a global superpower like CELL was powerless to stop the spread of ELID."

She meets my eyes again. "In order to compensate for those losses, and with manpower at an all-time low, CELL turned to funding fledgling manufacturing companies. Companies like Sangvis Ferri." She punctuates her last statement by squirming in place a bit. I'm not getting the impression she's struggling, however. "Their solution? Service Dolls, created to substitute for humans in whichever job positions needed filling. Accountants, teachers, construction workers…"

Her gaze pierces straight through me. "Soldiers."

I just sit there for a minute. Then I rise to my feet, walk over to where the booze is stored, pull the cork from another bottle with my bare hands, and down half of it in one go.

The burning of whiskey sliding down my throat helps clear my thoughts a little.

Mm, yes. Alcohol never fails to improve my mood. CELL became a world power despite their mishandling of the New York incursion? Gulp. They apparently, accidentally, killed off a good chunk of the human population by unleashing a mutagenic alien virus? Gulp. They're indirectly responsible for the creation of Tactical Dolls? Funding Sangvis Ferri? Likely aiding them in their gambit to capture Prophet-slash-me?

Down the fucking hatch.

Should probably stop before I get _too _drunk. I put the bottle away and meander back to the couch. There's a bit of a buzz in my head, an early sign that the liquid stress relief is working its magic, although I'm still cognitive enough to think straight. My body feels warm, but also numb. I don't think there's much more this Doll can say that would evoke-

Hold on. When did she say the initial containment breach was?

"Hey, uhh…" I hesitate. Why am I hesitating? Why am I so… apprehensive, all of a sudden? "When exactly was ELID released, again?"

A lock of jet-black hair dangles over M4A1's left eye as she tilts her head. She fixes me with an incredulous stare. "2035. Why, what's the matter? You're getting kind of pale…"

2035\. Four years after Sangvis Ferri's founding. Twelve since my ill-fated mission to New York.

She said that was a few decades ago.

"But if that's the case, then…" Pause. Swallow. A pit of dread opens up in my stomach.

_Oh no…_

I feel lightheaded. It's just the booze, Alcatraz, it has to be the booze. That's all it is. Shove the blame on your alcoholism. I drank before I went to sleep before, right? Maybe I just have a tiny hangover and simply misheard her.

"What… what year is it now?"

She seems equally hesitant to provide an answer. Clearly she can tell something's wrong with my behavior, and it's making her nervous. After a few long seconds of silence, however, she reaches the conclusion that there's no point in withholding the truth and lets it spill.

"You really _are _isolated…" she murmurs. "If my memory is correct, and assuming it's passed midnight, then today's date would be February 16th, 2062."

My whole world splinters.

The old life I remember, the dream I had of getting it back, the desire to reconnect with my friends and family back home… it all dies an ugly death the moment those words leave the Doll's mouth.

The year is 2062. It's 2062. All conscious thought grinds to a halt. Restarts, eventually. It takes a minute.

_2062_. Those five syllables echo in my brain in an endless, torturous loop, and I want to deny it and say it's all a bad dream, that this isn't real, but it _is _real and it _has _to be real because it _fits together too well_. I hadn't been dead for eight years like I'd thought, but closer to _forty_.

And the world died along with me.

I'm dimly aware of M4A1 mouthing more words. I can't hear any of it; the buzz in my ears has evolved into a high-pitched ringing that drowns out all other sound except the nonstop chanting of the date. I don't care what else she has to say. Can't care. I can't care because there's nothing _left _for me to care about.

I failed. _We _failed. Prophet and I gave up everything – my mind, his body, our moral compasses, our own humanity – we gave up _everything _to stop the Ceph and while I have an inkling they're no longer the biggest threat to us, the fact that CELL's sheer fucking incompetence made all those sacrifices for naught is a huge slap to the face. Especially after everything I went through to stop global extermination via the Manhattan Virus… The brothers I lost. I can count on two hands the number of people I genuinely give a shit about, and half of them died on that submarine.

The shock skips the denial stage and morphs straight to fear, then overwhelming grief, then a hollow black hole of nothingness.

Anger manifests somewhere down the line – anger at Prophet, anger at CELL, anger at Sangvis, anger at the Nanosuit and God and how fucking _shitty_ my life has been in general. My entire body trembles at the pure, unfiltered _RAGE _that bubbles upward, boiling just under the surface of my skin until I finally can't hold it in any longer-

"**_GOD DAMMIT_****!**"

I don't know if it's me or M4A1 who's screaming right now but I'm on my feet with a solid object in hand. Even in human form, I'm terrifyingly strong: Whatever I just threw breaks into itty bitty pieces against the wall.

Deep breaths. Try to focus, can't. Still not sure where all the noise is coming from. Doesn't matter. I look down at the pebbles scattered across the hard cement.

Wait. Pebbles.

I look at the blanket, then back to the floor.

The last of my self-control shatters like glass.

"NO! _CHINO_!"

Oh shit… oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit fuck fuck _fuck_…!

I need to… I need to get out of here, do something other than stare for one more second at the friend I've just murdered out of blind rage. I need some fresh air. Eclipsing that is the sudden, overpowering urge to _destroy_ something.

2062\. Destroy something in 2062, just like I did in 2023.

I stagger up the steps, swing open the door. The cool night air does absolutely _nothing _to calm my frayed nerves.

All I see are reminders of the truth I so desperately want to avoid. They're embedded into every object in sight – the farmhouse's charred remnants, for example. This would be a perfectly normal house with a perfectly normal family living in it if CELL hadn't gone and fucked us all over. I don't want to see it anymore, can't bear the memories it's bringing up.

My fists harden into miniature wrecking balls. They smash through the burnt wood, barely encountering any resistance. Jagged shards the size of pencils harmlessly bounce off my shirt. I scream every vulgar word in my vocabulary as I hammer away at the rickety wood, and it all comes crashing down after a minute but it's not _enough_, man, there's no fucking way that's enough. There are cuts all over my my hands but they're not bleeding; slivers of CryFibril are soon hidden under fresh tissue that gives the Hayflick limit a giant middle finger.

The tractor. The tractor hasn't been used for decades. It's another reminder that the world still died despite my best efforts. Break the tractor.

One of the shed's doors is torn from its hinges and thrown aside. _There you are_.

Metal shrieks in agony.

I'll never see them again, never see any of them again. Never tie up loose ends, never get back what precious little I cherished, never never _never_-

Nathan Gould has undoubtedly croaked by now, if not from old age or infection then from lifestyle choices. Same goes for my adoptive Uncle Ron. And Chino – the _real _Chino… what would he be now, sixty-five? Wife, kids? Grandkids? Is he alive? Dead? Whatever the case may be, I'm certain I don't have a place in his life anymore.

Alice… she'd be in her middle ages now. She would've accepted a long, long time ago that her older brother was finally never coming home again. If I were to track her down, show up randomly at her doorstep… I don't know how she'd take it. The thought scares me almost as much as the possibility of her being dead.

The tractor's been pulverized into an unrecognizable mass of rubber and rusted junk, but it's still not enough; there won't _ever_ be enough to quell the rage but I try anyway. I grab a sledgehammer off the wall: The bellow from deep in my chest as I bring the head down is more animal than human. I go apeshit on the wreckage, each loud pound crushing it further into a steel pancake.

I adjust my grip on the sledgehammer once the tractor's thoroughly demolished, then swing it around and around, spinning in wide circles, building up momentum before suddenly letting go. It punches a clean hole through the sheet metal roof and soars away into the night.

Not enough, never enough. I need _more_.

The other door is yanked free. It's not bending under my blows like it should be, so I envelop both arms in nano-weave and try again. I'm rewarded with the noisy screech of iron caving inward. Much better.

I can't go back to the Marines, either. No doubt the brass listed me as KIA after the New York incident. What would I say if I returned to the States and tried to re-enlist?

_"__Hi, I'm Sergeant James Rodriguez, but I'm usually known better by my nickname, Alcatraz. I'm a Force Recon veteran who died back in 2023. Don't worry about it! Also, I have this really weird suit sealed inside my body that's full of alien tech and gives me superpowers. So, where do I sign?"_

Yeah, because that would go over well.

The shed's door is bending and breaking under my relentless assault; it's screaming but it's not hurting, dying but not suffering. So I _make _it suffer: I scream and cry and cuss and _hurt_, I pour as much of the crushing pain in my soul into the damn thing as I can but it's not fucking working, I'm still up to my neck in emotional agony. It dribbles out of my mouth with each shout, each vile word, but it's never enough.

Time isn't an enemy you can beat into submission. You can't shoot a minute or stab an hour. It's not a stretch to imagine I'm one of the most lethal warriors on the planet, if not _the _most lethal, but what good is all this power and fancy gadgetry against a universal force like the passage of time? The irreversible, indefinite continued progress of existence? What should I _do_?!

Somehow, through the sea of rage and pain, an idea manifests and sets sail. It's so brilliant that it actually puts my grief-fueled rampage on pause.

Maybe things don't _have _to be different…

The heat in my chest lowers to a quiet simmer. I pace around, thinking. Collapse to my knees next to an empty Stalker exoskel.

The pull of total insanity is strong. It would be easy to stop resisting and let myself fall into a delusional fantasy world, wouldn't it? Easy and harmless. Who would stop me? I'd live the rest of my second life here, yeah, maybe collect some more rocks and bring back the squad. And Alice. And Gould, if only so I could yell at him for neglecting to mention how the suit was more interested in fusing with my body than fixing it. I'd pick up right where I left off. Wouldn't that be great?

A tentative smile forms. It's so brittle it may as well be made of cracked glass.

That would be nice. Just… forget about the post-apocalyptic future, pretend it's still 2023 in this little plot of land. World War III never happened here. Dolls won't cause me trouble. The radiation is a byproduct of Russia – _not _the New Soviet Union – being Russia and testing experimental bioweapons under NATO's nose, not an alien virus released by CELL.

Yes. That would be _so _damn nice. I'm already teetering on the edge of the abyss – one more step, a little nudge, and insanity would welcome me with open arms and an understanding smile.

All I have to do is let myself succumb…

A glint of moonlight escapes the cloud cover and shines over the Ceph carapace. It's brief, but I catch it and turn to look.

Through the dents and grime coating the armor, Laurence Barnes' reflection stares back at me. He looks as sad as I feel. No, not sad – disappointed.

Fuck off, Prophet, you body thief. You're not welcome in my fantasy world.

Oh, get off your high horse. You think _you're _the craziest thing I've seen this week? You're just my imagination playing tricks on me. A ghost from times long passed.

I know, it's just that-

And how would _you _have reacted? Huh?! The world as we knew it is gone! Finished! Taken over by Dolls and ELID and fuck-knows-what-else! What am I supposed to do now? Where would I belong here? How do I make things right? Quit your bullshit and tell me already!

…

…

…

…Christ, why do you always have to be right about everything?

I morph my arms back to normal and wipe the tears away with my sleeve. When I glance back at the empty armor, I see my own face, red and puffy around the eyes. They're still the wrong color. Still have that dim glow around the irises.

My shoulders slump. Dammit, look at me… I'm supposed to be better than this. No marine worth his salt, especially one who got into special forces like me, would ever lose his shit like that. I should be above throwing petty temper tantrums whenever things don't go my way.

That's one of the things recruiters don't tell you, you know, when you go to enlist. None of the branches give a single flying fuck about your individuality. As far as the higher-ups are concerned, they _own _you, and if you exhibit a quirk that doesn't conform to their standards, they'll rip that behavior out of you piece by piece and fill the gaps in with more respectable etiquette.

You grow to appreciate it in the long run. I lost a few bad habits during boot camp, and without the Marine Corps'… _peculiar_ brand of hardening, I would've broken down long before New York happened. If a superior caught me screaming like that, my ass would've been toast.

Now that the anger has burnt out, the sailboat called insanity is pulverized by a tidal wave called rationality and sinks to the bottom of my mind. I have no tears to spare for it.

So what happens now, then?

...Maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong angle. Thinking about my predicament like an individual is doing me no good, so I figure, maybe I should start analyzing it like a soldier instead. I signed up for military service to help keep the peace when times were grim, right? So I think: Where in this new post-apocalyptic Earth would I be needed most? What can I do to clean up the mess CELL left behind? Without TV or Internet access, it's hard to say. But the problem is that I have nothing to- Oh shit, I left M4A1 tied up in the basement.

Erm. That sounded a bit wrong, even to me. For the record, I'm not a sex predator, nor do I think I can ever be attracted, emotionally, to a Tactical Doll. Just putting that out there.

I head underground.

And lo and behold, she wasn't content to patiently wait around while her crazy kidnapper was out of eyesight. Her hands are still bound, but she's laying on her back across the floor, and for some odd reason it reminds me of those old Weazel Ball toys from the turn of the millennium. She's uttering muffled curses as she repeatedly tries and fails to knock the coffee table over with her outstretched legs. I'm puzzled as to why. There's nothing on it she might want besides her rifle, and even then, she'd be hard-pressed to use it given her circumstances.

"Eep!" She snaps her head to me when she hears my footsteps. Her gray eyes are wide, full of fear. "I wasn't trying to escape, honest! I just wanted my rifle back!"

I don't say anything. Instead I take the pocket knife out before approaching her.

"What are you doing?" The pieces in M4A1's mind click together when I flick the blade open, and hoo boy, her reaction is _not _a calm one. She shuts her eyes and tears up as she thrashes against her restraints, fighting against them for all she's worth. I didn't know Dolls can cry. "No, please! I'm telling the truth! I don't feel safe without my gun; please, I promise I wasn't-!"

Her blubbering stops after one clean cut.

"…Ehh?"

I toss the knife away. Sit down on the couch, bury my face in my hands. Wonder if I'm going soft. No, that's not it – I just can't find it in me to give a damn anymore. I feel exhausted. Empty.

I hear M4A1 scramble to her feet, struggling to process why I'd cut the bindings loose and left her unharmed.

M4A1. The only Doll who refrained from shooting me on sight. Truth be told, I envy her – she has a valid reason to be out here, doesn't she? She's fighting to keep Sangvis Ferri's influence from getting out of control. She has a chain of command, even if it isn't real military. She has other Dolls to rely on and a place to chill out between missions. Probably. Wishful thinking, but where's the harm in that?

It's funny, in a sick sort of way. She's not even alive and yet she has more of a reason to keep on chugging than I do.

A humorless chuckle escapes me. "I don't know what's worse. That I'll never get my old life back, or that I never had much of a life in the first place." I tell her matter-of-factly. It's easily the most pathetic thing I've ever said, but it's also the cold, hard truth. "You're free to go. Just… get out of here."

I don't need to tell her twice. She springs into action – I hear her sigh of contentment as she scoops up her beloved carbine, relieved to have the gun she's named after back in hand. I hear her do a magazine check. I hear her scuttle towards the exit, itching to put miles of distance between herself and the madman who talks to rocks. And really, after all the less than welcoming shit I've put her through, who can fault her for taking an excuse to leave the party early?

I hear her pause before she goes upstairs. I hear metal on concrete as she slowly, cautiously, approaches the couch. A weight settles down next to me.

A cold hand rests itself on my shoulder. And for the longest time afterward, silence.

"…Who _are _you?" she eventually asks.

That's a really good question, M4A1. I'd asked myself the same thing before I joined the Marines; I'd asked that when I got the Nanosuit; I'd asked that as recently as two days ago. There's no one solid answer, either: Sometimes I'm James Rodriguez the seemingly normal human, other times I'm Golem Boy the ass-kicking machine. There was even a span of time where I went by the moniker of Prophet, although I don't quite remember it.

But if I have to pick one name that encompasses _me_, as a whole…

"They call me Alcatraz."

* * *

You know the old saying, 'The best way to the heart is through the stomach'? Turns out it holds as true to Dolls as it does to humans. All I had to do was point my former captive to where the food is stored, and wouldn't you know it – all is forgiven. Or maybe she simply knows better than to rile up the guy who's apparently prone to violent psychotic outbursts.

It's been a quarter hour since I released her. She'd taken the time between stuffing her face to properly introduce herself as Elite Tactical Doll M4A1 (I pretended I didn't already know that), adding that most of her colleagues at Griffin call her M4 for short and how I'm also welcome to do so. An olive branch, perhaps? Or just a casual attempt to look more approachable? Either way, M4 it is.

Then she started with the questioning.

"Sho ret meh get thish…" The artificial girl pauses to swallow her food before trying again. She's sat cross-legged on a spare blanket I'd draped over the floor. "So let me get this straight… You're a member of the Marine Special Forces who fought in the New York incursion of 2023."

"Yes."

"Not only that, it was _you _who stopped the Ceph pathogen and not CELL as the media claimed."

"Yes."

"And the next thing you remember is waking up in an abandoned Sangvis Ferri research facility, only to find out you're being targeted by their Dolls?"

My eye twitches slightly. "Isn't that what I _just _said?"

M4 flinches at my sharp tone. "I'm sorry… I thought it would be prudent to make sure I'm following you correctly." She spoons in another mouthful of dry oats. She's on her third bowl; how long has it been since she's last eaten? "It's just that what you're claiming is dubious at best. No offense, but…"

She shrugs apologetically and motions at me. "Look at you. How could one human reprogram an alien virus? How did you get captured? What makes you so special that Sangvis Ferri's Dolls would organize a manhunt? So many things about your story aren't adding up."

It's possible I was a bit vague on the details.

What, you think I'm going to spill my whole life story to someone I met only two hours ago? And almost killed, for that matter? M4 might hold the honor of being the first on my 'Dolls I shouldn't shoot' list, but let's make one thing clear: Just because we're not enemies doesn't mean we're suddenly buddy-buddy with one another. And it sure as shit doesn't mean I trust her.

This is going to sound crazy, but I actually trust Scarecrow more than M4. Yeah, _that _Scarecrow.

The Sangvis Ringleader was a lot of things – arrogant, cold, conceited, a total bitch, the list goes on – but for all her negative traits, I never once got the impression she was a liar. Her digital mind convinced itself that no matter how many cheap tactics I used to fight against her, it wouldn't amount to anything in the end. She felt she had no reason to feed me false information. Why would she, when victory was inevitable? N2's voice analysis in the arena proved that despite a few setbacks, Scarecrow had absolute confidence in her master plan. I could trust her to follow through with whatever she said.

By contrast, M4 is a mystery. She still hasn't told me _why _she's traversing the forest by her lonesome. I'm willing to believe she wasn't searching for me, but that begs the question – what else out here is important enough to risk death by Sangvis or wild Ceph? What was she doing before our chance encounter?

I'll figure it out later, one way or another. She wants to know what makes me a special boy? I'll tell her.

"M4," I deliberately draw out her name, "how much do you know about Nanosuits?"

"Nanosuits?" The Doll cocks her head, adopting a curious look. "Barely anything, I'm afraid. I once saw an old brochure advertising the first-generation model. If I'm remembering it right, they were combat exosuits fielded in limited quantities that greatly enhanced human soldiers' abilities on the battlefield."

Her expression turns troubled. "My creator told me that in 2047, CELL captured all active operators and forcibly removed their suits… She said very few survived the skinning process. Her father had connections to CryNet," she elaborates when I look at her funny. "Why ask, though? This still isn't making sense."

My mind flashes back to the hallucination in the facility's control room, so long ago. Scratch that: I'm _reliving _it; I can picture Psycho's face in perfect detail, scrunched up in agony. I can hear his tortured wails, hear the woman overseeing the procedure trying not to have a breakdown as she commentates on the atrocity. It doesn't last long, and I'm soon aware of the Tactical Doll staring at me, waiting for me to say something. So I do.

"What if I told you they missed one?"

"I beg your pardon?"

I don't answer verbally. Instead I pull up my left sleeve, making sure she has a clear view. There's a faint slithering sound when CryFibril as black as the night sky creeps over the surface of my skin.

And I think M4's mind crashed at the sight, because it takes her a full minute to pick her jaw up off the floor.

"…Oh. That's…" She nervously taps her fingers together, babbling a stream of gibberish that briefly leaves me worried I really _did _break something. Her oats have been forgotten entirely. "I mean, I just… I didn't expect, you know, when you said that you – that is to say…" She gives up trying to find an adequate response and sighs, "Somehow this explains everything and nothing at the same time."

Truer words have never been spoken, especially in this day and age.

"Bet the brochure never mentioned symbiosis, did it?" I revert my arm to normal and roll down my sleeve. "Course it didn't." Then again, maybe that's exclusive to the upgraded version. "I was in bad shape when I got my suit, M4. Real bad. Practically staring death in the eye." A snort. "Hell, I _did _die – I was a vegetable on life support. That suit turned me into a grotesque freak. A Frankenstein's monster, an unholy abomination, however you want to phrase it. But at least I could still get shit done, even as a walking corpse."

"But if that was you in the suit earlier, then how are you…?" M4 trails off.

"I'm not sure when or how it happened myself, to be honest." I shrug, answering the unfinished question. "All I know is that I'm not a guy in a suit anymore. I'm a guy _and _a suit, fused together into one being. Now I can, you know. Change back and forth. It's cool, I guess."

"Wow. Incredible…" The Doll puts her bowl aside, visibly thinking over everything I'd told her. Which isn't much, mind you, but it's still pretty mind-boggling. "Even for me, this is a lot to take in… I mean, what were the odds I'd stumble across the last Nanosuit user, living alone in a deserted farmstead? A hero…?"

I want to burst out laughing. Hero? Oh, M4. You sweet, naïve, innocent child. She'd only need to take a passing glance at my service record to know that I'm hardly a paragon of virtue. A hero wouldn't burn down South American villages to keep the spread of deadly diseases at bay. A hero wouldn't stand by and watch refugees electrocute themselves trying to climb a livewire fence. And a _true_ hero definitely wouldn't toy with elite mercenaries, meticulously picking them off one by one, just to make their jerkass commander shit his pants in terror.

Though to be fair, Hargreave was the one holding my leash during that last bit, and he never berated me for my sadism. I think he got a small thrill out of watching his new attack dog putting the old one in its place.

M4 brings me back to the here-and-now. "Um, Mr. Alcatraz? I have more questions…"

"So do I. You ever gonna tell me what you're doing out here all by your lonesome?"

Nice try, missy, but I never said our game of 20 Questions was finished. Also, looking back, didn't she imply she was in the middle of something before the Ceph sidetracked her?

She doesn't say anything for a moment. She looks at the floor, twiddling her metal thumbs. "…That's classified."

_Of course it fucking is,_ I think with a roll of the eyes.

"Okay, so can you give me something that _isn't _classified?"

Now, I might be an ass but I'm not heartless. I won't force her to tell me anything – I'll consider it a token of goodwill for her saving me earlier and putting up with all of my crap. Truthfully, I just want to see how much intel I can squeeze out of this Doll without any literal squeezing.

Um. Painful squeezing, not pleasurable. Shut up, hormones, you're not helping here.

To my surprise, she nods thoughtfully. "Perhaps we can help one another, Mr. Alcatraz. I wasn't originally deployed by myself… I have friends. Sisters, you could call them. We were separated ten weeks ago after an encounter with an extremely powerful Sangvis Ferri Ringleader. Ringleaders are high-ranking command and combat units, in case you aren't aware, and they're each notorious in their own way. I can't get into the specifics, but please believe me – it's imperative that I reach the nearest Griffin outpost."

So there might be other Ringleaders besides the three stooges I'd fought in the facility. Good to know. My scuffles with the trio is another thing I conveniently 'forgot' to mention earlier.

And ten weeks, holy shit... I'm surprised she never thought to make rock versions of her missing friends.

"You might be on the right track, then." I nod back. "I came across a Griffin patrol just the other day. Overheard them saying they were looking for-"

I blink and just like _that _M4's face is suddenly three inches away from my own, ashen eyes wide and hopeful. Even SECOND fails to come up with an explanation for how she did that. But wait, it gets even more awkward: She places her hands on my shoulders and starts shaking me like I'm a pinata and she's trying to make the candy fall out.

"You saw Griffin Dolls?! Where? How many? What did they look like? Were they carrying assault rifles? Did one have an eyepatch or a mechanical arm? Tell me everything!"

Dolls might be stronger than baseline humans – I learned that from experience – but not post-humans. I manage to pry her away from my personal space without breaking her arms. "Whoa, slow the fuck down. You're making me nauseous." Not really, but whatever stops her from manhandling me again. "Take a deep breath and try again. Do you think your… uh, sisters might be nearby?"

She does, and she calms down a bit, and she asks again – more politely this time – about the Dolls I'd observed a day and a half ago. She's disheartened when she learns FAL and Five-seveN don't match the descriptions of her sisters. She's saddened even further when I make the grand reveal that I don't know where Griffin's base of operations in these parts is. On the other side of the coin, she hasn't seen any non-Sangvis Dolls (or any friendly faces at all, for that matter) since she split with her team over two and a half months ago, so the presence of Griffin androids in the area is a huge boost to her optimism about this secret mission's success.

It's got me thinking…

"You've helped me more than you know. Thank you so much, Mr. Alcatraz!" She beams at me, back on the floor and finishing up the last of her meal. She looks cheerful, more so than I'd seen up to now.

I just shrug from my spot on the couch.

She continues, "No, really, this is the best news I've heard in ages! It feels like I'm finally getting somewhere. Like the risks my sisters are taking won't be in vain." Her expression turns faraway, a wistful smile spreading over her lips. "I'm getting close… When I deliver this data to Griffin, we might finally have an answer to the Sangvis insurrection."

"What data?"

M4 freezes mid-spoonful. Just the sight of her brings to mind the image of a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"…Did I say that out loud?" I nod once, and she winces. "How foolish of me. I'm an elite T-Doll; I'm supposed to be above such silly mistakes."

T-Doll...? Oh, must be short for Tactical Doll. I kinda like it.

"Cat's halfway out of the bag already," M4 continues with a sigh, "so I might as well tell you the full story. My sisters and I – we're called AR Team, by the way – we're unique Dolls who specialize in covert operations. We recently acquired some encrypted data that could help us better understand Sangvis Ferri's chain of command, along with whatever incident happened that caused them go rogue. Unfortunately, as I already said, we were forced to scatter, and I was tasked with delivering the data to Griffin in exchange for backup." Her eyes begin to tear up. "Even now, the rest of my team is out there drawing SF's attention away from me. I have to find Griffin… I have to save my sisters."

I just nod again and don't say anything. It's not that I don't sympathize with her situation – believe me, I really do. If our roles were reversed and it was Omega-One covering my ass, then I'd also do whatever it took to bring them back home alive. I know better than anyone how much of a punch to the fucking gut it is to lose people you consider family. I know what it's like to feel helpless, when there's nothing you can do to keep war from claiming those you grow to care about.

The part of my psyche that still holds a shred of childish innocence is actually rooting for M4 at this point, urging her to persevere and achieve victory. Lord knows I'll approve of anything that throws a spanner into SF's evil machinations.

The T-Doll herself seems to be on a similar train of thought. "Say, Mr. Alcatraz…" she begins shyly, sitting up a bit straighter.

I hold up a hand. "Enough with the 'Mister' shit. Just Alcatraz is fine."

"Right. Sure." She nods obediently. "Um, Alcatraz, would I be wrong to assume you hold no special love for Sangvis Ferri?"

"Let me put it this way, M4. If I could gather up all those annoying, delusional, narcissistic, thick-headed, stripperific sex robot rejects in one place and nuke the ever-loving _shit _out of them, I'd do so in a heartbeat. Then I'd piss all over the ashes."

M4 stares at me for a long time.

"Uhhh… okay then…" She coughs into her fist. "Well in that case, since we share a common enemy, I was wondering if… perhaps, maybe… you'd like to accompany me?"

Work together with a Tactical Doll…? Yeah, why not? Rock Chino (bless his soul) notwithstanding, I haven't had a proper ally since New York. And now that my pipe dream of reuniting with my loved ones has gone down the shitter, my schedule's completely empty. What else am I going to do? Till the fields?

What I need is a goal, something to work toward. Something that will benefit me in the long run. Bodyguarding a delivery android may not have been my first pick, or even the tenth, but if it means I get to kick Sangvis Ferri in the balls again, then I'm all for it. Maybe I can get directions to a town or city from someone at Griffin once that's done, see what I can do from there.

Sure, Mr. Frodo. I'll help you take the ring to Mordor.

"Okay."

"Really?" M4's face brightens like Christmas lights. Is she prone to mood swings just like regular human teenagers? "Thank, you, Mr. Al- uh, Alcatraz! I promise I won't be a bother! And I'll make sure that you're… that you're…"

She stifles a yawn. I guess all the excitement over the past couple of hours along with the food has finally left her spent. "That you're rewarded…"

Oh, I can think of a suitable reward and _PENIS SHUT UP_.

"Why don't you spend the night?" I rise to my feet and make my way to the cellar's exit, shotgun in hand. "Take the couch."

She accepts with a grateful nod, then looks at me curiously. "We're doing shifts, right? You'll wake me up when you're tired?"

"I don't think I'm getting any more sleep tonight," I admit with a shrug. "I'm just gonna, you know. Take a walk, clear my head a little."

"Oh, okay." I watch my new Doll companion get comfortable under the blanket. I turn away and make it to the third stair when she suddenly calls out, "Alcatraz?"

"Yeah, what?"

She lifts her head up to look me in the eye. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry that your experience with Dolls hasn't been pleasant so far. We're not all bad, you know. Really. Most of us sympathize with humans and want to help in any way we can."

We keep eye contact for a bit longer. I break it first and head outside, not entirely sure how to feel about anything anymore.

* * *

**(Morning)**

It's midway through sunrise. I approach the couch from behind, pick the whole thing up with barely any effort, and dump its sleeping occupant on the floor.

"EEK!"

M4 lets out a startled yelp. She glares at me through the tangle of blanket, silently demanding to know what the hell my problem is.

"Ran into a Sangvis patrol a few hundred yards out. Don't know if they found this place by accident or if they're closing in on us, but I'm not sticking around to find out," I inform her. "Grab your gear and whatever else you need. We're leaving in two." Without waiting for a reply, I head to the back area, away from her view, and put on the combat threads.

The patrol was nothing special; in fact, it was pathetically tiny for SF: two Vespids, a Ripper, and five Dinergates. They're dead now but I'm still worried. Last night wasn't exactly a quiet affair, mostly thanks to Squiddie, and the paranoia that still owns a large amount of real estate in my head is warning me that I'd best get moving, pronto.

I grab a civilian backpack and stuff my clothes inside the main compartment, filling the extra pockets with food, water, and other assorted crap. Also, booze. Can't forget the booze. Part of me wants to hit the shed and grab some tools; most of me counters that there's no time for lollygagging when SF is nipping at my heels.

_Our _heels. Mine and M4A1's. I'm traveling with her now, aren't I? Huh. Feels weird not being alone anymore. Weirder knowing she's named after a rifle.

I return to the living area. I have to give M4 credit: she handles the sight of my Nanosuit far better than your typical normie. She screams, sure, but I'm only in her rifle's crosshairs for three seconds before she remembers who, or rather _what _I am. "A-Alcatraz?!"

I can't resist snarking. "In the flesh. Ready?"

She nods, adjusting the strap on a rucksack slung over her shoulder.

I nod back. We leave behind the closest thing I've had to a home in a week, me at the front, emerging into the Russian dawn. The suit keeps me warm and cozy from the chill that hangs in the air like a deep feeling of dread, everlasting and capable of making you sick with enough exposure.

The farm, while remote, isn't totally isolated. Beyond a waist-high metal gate at the property's edge is a dirt road. It's in the opposite direction of where I encountered the Sangvis patrol, so it should be a safe route.

We walk for about five minutes when I realize M4's being unusually quiet. Curious, and maybe just a _tiny _bit concerned, I turn my head around to check on her.

She's not quite fast enough to lift her eyes from my ass to my visor before I notice.

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…On second thought, maybe I should stay in human form."

* * *

**(Several Hours Later)**

I don't even get a warning this time. I take only a second – literally one measly second – to rub a bright spot from my eyes and _bam_, I'm back in New York. Or I think it's New York. Nope, definitely the Big Apple – I can just make out the crumbling remains of the Empire State Building many miles away.

…What the _fuck _happened here while I was gone?!

The whole city's been reclaimed by nature; everywhere I look are ferns and bushes and other greenery of all shapes and sizes. There are still manmade structures that aren't piles of rubble, that continue to stand tall against the overgrowth swallowing the city streets, but they don't look like they'll last much longer: Vines creep up concrete walls and wrap themselves tightly around lampposts, like floral tentacles attempting to drag the last remnants of mankind's urban habitat back to where they belong. Craters and rusted APCs are intermixed with the shells of cars; a stark reminder of the horrors that went down here almost forty years ago. To me, it feels like it all happened yesterday.

Oh, and did I mention the giant dome thing covering the entirety of the city? What is this, the _Simpsons _movie? Also, why am I holding a compound bow that looks like it's been subjected to German engineering?

Movement from below puts my jumbled thoughts on hold. I'm at the edge of what used to be an overpass. Below me is a shallow pond. Treading through the water, yucking about Prophet and Ceph and all this other stuff I should be paying attention to but I'm also sick of hearing about, is a six-man CELL squad.

Look at them. They aren't even in proper patrol formation, and I'm expected to believe these asswipes took credit for all my work? And why, or more importantly, _how_ on God's green earth did they turn New York City into their own private jungle? When did CELL develop a green thumb?

While I don't know the answers to any of those questions, I _do _somehow know that my fancy bow has electrified arrows. I also know that a pond is a very, very bad place to be standing right now if you had friends in Cobalt Section.

I nock an arrow and pull the bowstring back. Memories of the archery course my dad and I signed up for when I was a kid flood back to me, and with them come the proper instructions on bow technique. I cloak and take a deep breath. Then I release.

The arrow's almost completely silent; the little noise it makes is more of a light _thwip _rather than a _twang_. It flies straight and true, directly towards the water at the lead CELLulite's feet. You could say this band of goons in soldiers' clothing are in for a very shocking surprise.

"Alcatraz?"

Alcatraz...? No, I'm Prophet. Alcatraz is sleeping. His personality matrix was corrupted and put into storage, and I need his body if we want to stop the Alpha Ceph. Didn't I explain that already?

"Alcatraz, look at me!"

An invisible force shakes me just as I hear a shout from the lead merc. I blink a few times, look around. My gaze settles on a certain black-haired Doll.

"You were spacing out," she says. Judging by her concerned expression, I must've been unresponsive for longer than I thought. "Are you okay? Do you need to rest?"

I shake my head. Partly to affirm the negative, partly to make sure I'm not still stuck in the past. "Um, no. I'm okay… Sorry about that."

She frowns at me.

"M4…" I rub a hand on my forehead, sighing. "I'm fine. Just… got caught up reminiscing, I guess." I motion with my head to a dilapidated general goods store across the street, hoping to change the subject. "Did you check in there yet? Could be something useful."

"…Not yet." She stares at me a bit longer. Then, apparently trusting that what I'm saying is the truth, she leaves my side to investigate the building, stepping over a Vespid laying on the hard-packed ground.

It's been about six hours since we left the farm, give or take two. The road led us to an abandoned town. Actually, calling it a 'town' would be too generous – it's hardly more than a village. It's square-shaped, with five rows of unpaved streets. The third street, which in actuality is an extension of the road leading in and out of this place, is the only one with a commercial presence. The other four are lined with neat rows of small houses; unfortunately, time hasn't been kind to them.

And it might be a stretch to say it was abandoned, too, because the village was crawling with Sangvis when we got here. Key word: _was_. As in, there _was_ a truly startling amount of Dinergates when I clambered up the side of a drugstore where they couldn't reach me. The number got more manageable a few minutes later.

While I was preoccupied being the big buffoonish distraction, M4 took the opportunity to slip away and pick off the rank-and-file androids with suppressed rifle fire. I'm starting to see why she's classified as an elite T-Doll – she wiped them all out with unerring accuracy, not taking so much as a scratch throughout the whole ordeal.

Long story short: village is cleared, we're alive, Sangvis isn't. Go team. Now we plunder the spoils of war.

But back to the flashback… I mean, they still happen, just not as frequently as they did on day one. Once or twice a day now, usually. Sometimes they only last a few seconds; other times it feels like I'm trapped in Prophet's mind for hours. I'm slowly piecing together what he was up to while I was dead. None of it involves rainbows, ponies, and shitting glitter. Jesus, and people say _I'm _antisocial… At least _I _never pissed off my squadmates every time I opened my yapper.

Still have no idea why the flashbacks even happen, or why the suit still hasn't found a fix for what obviously counts as a performance-hindering issue. Usually SECOND's right on top of that shit. Weird.

Whatever, I guess. The breaks from reality haven't gotten me killed yet, so I'll leave that particular problem on the shelf for now. Better regroup with M4 before she starts worrying again.

"Anything good?" I ask after finding her rummaging through some drawers in a small back office. The rest of the store is picked clean; there's nothing on the shelves but cobwebs.

"Not really. Rusty shotgun, expired pain medicine… oh, but this might be useful." She tosses me an unopened package of 12-guage buckshot. A blessing, because the Marshall's running dangerously low on ammo. "No food though, I'm afraid." She adds with a sigh. "This village must've been evacuated from either ELID or Sangvis. It explains why we haven't seen any bodies."

She raises a point there – I know the signs of panic-purchasing, having survived an epidemic or three back in the early 2020s. I wonder where all the villagers went. "Ammo's always better in the long run than expired breakfast pastries. C'mon, let's sweep the houses next."

We don't get to. My human form, lacking a BUD, doesn't detect the danger in the form of a gun barrel until I feel it pressed against the side of my head the moment I step out the front door.

"Put your weapon down!" a male voice demands in Russian.

Well. This escalated quickly.

I ignore M4's panicked shout, as well as the second guy emerging from the ruins of a bed-and-breakfast on the opposite side of the street, focusing instead on the translated text that appears at the bottom of my vision. I know I should be at least _slightly _concerned – I don't know if this human disguise can stop a shot fired point-blank, and I can't summon the N2 fast enough before my unknown assailant pulls the trigger – but I'm just captivated by what I'm seeing right now.

I have built-in subtitles. That's fucking _cool_.

"Was it you? Did you do this?" The guy holding a gun against my ear asks once I drop the Marshall, clearly suspicious of me (and in a twisted way, he has every right to be). I open my mouth to respond but M4 and the other dude both beat me to it:

"Wait, don't shoot! He's with me!"

"Lev, what the fuck do you think you're doing?! Get your gun out of that man's face, _now_!"

My new not-friend, Lev, pauses. M4 scoots around us from my left peripheral; oddly, she doesn't have her gun raised. She's wasting a perfectly good opportunity here. If I were her, I'd be pointing it at the friendlier dude. Who, I observe as he closes the distance, is also armed.

After a few more tense seconds, Lev complies and backs off to stand with the other man. Oh, he's got a Grendel battle rifle. No way I would've survived if he decided to snuff me.

So. Two dudes, both human. Even though one of them seems a bit trigger-happy, I'm so relieved to finally, finally, _finally _see fellow humans that I just might cry.

They're both wearing backpacks and respirators and look to be a few years older than me – biologically speaking, of course. Lev's wearing an olive-green hoodie and a pair of dirty jeans; his associate is garbed in a black sweatshirt, a matching fleece cap with bits of blond hair poking through, and woodland camo pants. He's carrying a FY71, which is basically a North Korean clone of the AK-74M assault rifle, in a sloppy at-rest pose. Not military, then.

"I apologize for what happened just now," Dude 2 says, also in Russian. "We were out hunting game when we heard gunfire coming from the village. Everyone knows to avoid this place ever since Sangvis moved in, and I asked myself, 'What idiots think they can win against those machines?'"

"Damir, you're stupid, you know that?" Lev grouses. He glances back at us. "I wanted to leave, but no! Let's fucking get closer to the action instead! I swear, brother, one of these days you're going to learn the hard way that you're not invincible."

_In New Soviet Russia, the action finds you_, I refrain from saying.

"Ah, come on, Lev. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"It died years ago, along with every person employed by Sangvis Ferri."

M4 clears her throat, bringing all eyes to her. She wilts a little under all the gazes. "Yes. Well. I-In any case, I feel we haven't been properly introduced yet. My name is Tactical Doll M4A1, employee of Griffin & Kryuger PMC. And this is my companion-"

"James," I blurt out. "My name's James. I, uh… I'm just a guy trying to start over."

I lock my eyes on M4's, silently daring her to question me. Luckily, she takes the hint.

"Oh, you are a yankee, eh?" Damir switches to surprisingly good English, looking me over. It completely slipped my mind that I'd introduced myself in my native tongue. So did M4, I also realize after a moment. "Apologies if you did not understand us earlier, friend. Do you need me to repeat what was said?"

"Um, no. It's fine. I understand Russian," somehow, "but I don't speak it."

Nope, nothing suspicious here. I'm just your everyday guy who happens to be able to hold his own against a superior number of killer robots. Dammit, I should've thought of an alibi for when I actually found other humans. Guess I'll default to saying as little as possible and pray these hunters don't ask for a backstory.

Damir pauses long enough to skirt into awkward territory before replying. "That is… good to know." Back to Russian. "So, what brings an odd pair like you around here? An assignment from Griffin?"

"Actually, yes." The suddenly bilingual M4 nods and smiles politely. "James is helping me get back into contact with my employers. You sound familiar with G&K, Mr. Damir. Would you happen to know of any bases around here?"

The man's hazel eyes sparkle with jolly mirth. "As a matter of fact, _da_, I do! There's an outpost maybe… oh, ninety minutes' drive from our home village. Lev and I sometimes go there to trade supplies; usually fresh meat in exchange for ammo." He jerks a thumb behind him. "Our truck is parked farther up the road. Would you like a lift?"

M4 quivers like she's about to explode with happiness. Before she can thank him, however, he's pulled aside by Lev. They whisper to one another in Russian, trying to be discreet. I hear them anyway.

"Damir, what the hell are you doing? They're total strangers!"

"They seem harmless enough to me, little brother."

"Harmless?! One of them is a T-Doll! And did you see that man's eyes? They're glowing, Damir. _Glowing_. And need I point out that they seemingly killed all the SF in this village _by themselves_?"

Damir subtly glances at me. "Okay, I'll admit the eyes are strange, but I don't see that as reason enough to be concerned. We live in a strange world already, Lev. I just have a good feeling about this."

Lev still doesn't look convinced.

The older brother gently pats his arm. "Trust me, my brother. The fact that they are enemies of Sangvis speaks for itself. Besides, when have I ever steered us wrong before?"

"I can think of a few instances." Lev says darkly. "Ugh… fine. Just promise me we won't stay at that- that _mental asylum _any longer than necessary."

Even under the respirator I can see Damir grinning mischievously. "Aww, but Lev, your admirer will be so happy to see you-"

Lev elbows the other man away and hastily addresses us. "We'll take you! Just… argh. Just don't do anything funny, or I swear to God I'll end you both myself! I'll be keeping a close eye on you the whole time, got it?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turns his back to us – immediately and ironically contradicting what he'd just said – and starts down the road, grumbling under his breath.

"Don't sweat it, I'll behave." I call after him in my most assuring voice. I pick up the shotgun and follow his retreating figure.

"Thank you again, Mr. Lev, Mr. Damir!" M4 adds, still over the moon by this turn of good fortune.

Damir, walking side-by-side with me, nudges the butt of his assault rifle into my gut. "Do not worry about Lev, comrade. He is a bit rough around the edges, but he's a good man at heart. Our family, it is just the two of us, and he is very protective of me, _da_?"

I nod at him and smile weakly. Although he doesn't know it, he's brought back memories of the sister I'll probably never see again.

"Anyway," he continues, oblivious to my sudden inner turmoil, "I am Damir Paskov, and Lev is my younger brother by two minutes. Don't tell him I said that, though. He gets cranky whenever I point that out, haha!"

He keeps talking but I'm not really paying attention anymore. Jeez, talk about a turn of events. Twelve hours ago I was alone with nowhere to go or anyone to talk to besides a rock; now, I'm en route to civilization with two human hunters and an elite T-Doll for company. As far as bullshitting your way through your problems goes, this didn't turn out half bad.

It's a mixed feeling, though. I'll have to find a way to carve out a new life in this future. A proper life.

On the plus side, I know I can trust Lev and Damir. They have every intention of taking us to the Griffin outpost; the lie detector in me confirmed it. They're not stupid enough to try and rob us. Though if they _do _try… well, it would be an awfully short fight, wouldn't it?

* * *

**Can I get an F in the reviews for Rock Chino?  
**

**So, about this chapter. Eagle-eyed lore enthusiasts will note how I changed the year of ELID's release from 2030 to 2035. The reason is so the events of _Crysis: Escalation _will still be 100% canon; while I'm not the hugest fan of the book, lore is lore. (Seriously though, why did they suddenly make Chino Hispanic? The random snippets of Spanish came out of nowhere. Ugh.) Besides, I doubt five years would make a huge difference where ELID is concerned. **

**I additionally considered having a proper combat scene where Alcatraz and M4 worked together to destroy a Sangvis command post, but scrapped it at the last minute. While it would be cool to see how well the two synchronize in combat, it would've been too much of a shift in tone (especially after Alcatraz's mental breakdown), plus it didn't really add anything to the main plot. Also, I needed a break from extended fights.**

**As for Damir and Lev: They'll be important for the next two chapters. After that, they'll be relegated to reccurring side characters. I only have three OC's planned for this story, and the hunter twins, as I affectionately call them, are two of them.**

**That's about it. Let's make this the chapter that breaks the 100-review mark!**


	8. The Commander

**Would you guys believe me if I said any possible S.T.A.L.K.E.R. reference from last chapter was completely unintentional? **

**I'm also amused that only one person has speculated about who the Commander is…**

* * *

"Do you have a family, Alcatraz?"

I blink once, then twice. The question came so far out of left field that I'm at a loss for words. The best I manage is a confused stare and a stupid, "Huh?"

M4 wrings her hands, nervously averting her gaze. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking… I told you I have sisters, and family is considered an important subject to humans. So I was wondering if… um…"

She trails off and falls silent. I don't say anything, either. What an amicable relationship we have.

It's been a couple of hours since we met those human brothers, Damir and Lev. They dumped us in the flatbed of a pickup truck so close to death the ignition sounded like it was screaming in agony when the older twin turned the key. Even worse is that the road isn't paved, meaning every rough patch – which we run into about every thirty seconds – feels like a goddamn earthquake. It's not fun, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm a big boy. I can tolerate it.

The forest rushes by us in a blur of green and brown, the wind whipping at my loose clothing. I've missed stuff like this. Going on road trips, being with other people – normal things I haven't experienced in a week. Or a few decades, of you want to be technical about it.

It took less than ten minutes after we departed for M4 to start badgering me about my life again.

Simple stuff at first, not dissimilar to what you'd normally ask when making a new friend: "Is James your real first name?" Maybe. "Would you prefer I call you that instead of Alcatraz?" No. "Where did you grow up?" New Jersey. "What was it like there?" The state was fine, the people sucked.

This went on for a fairly long while before she realized I wasn't in a chatty mood and left me alone. It's not like I was trying to push her away though; hell no. She's the first person- err, machine… _sentient being _to give a shit about me in this fucked-up future, and despite the short time we've known each other, I find myself growing fond of her. Her kind personality, her timid yet polite mannerisms… it reminds me of Alice. I'm not trying to be a dick to her or anything. I'm just a quiet guy by nature.

And hey, at least she knew not to ask anything _too_ personal, right? Right?

Wrong. I was expecting the rest of the trip to pass in silence when she opened her mouth again and dropped _that _bombshell on me.

"…Sister." I finally reply.

M4 looks back to me, interest piqued. "Really? You have a sister too? Older or younger?"

"Younger. She was just a kid when…"

Now it's my turn to leave the sentence unfinished.

Alice… I have no idea what happened to her after I went to say goodbye. After Prophet cowed that… that… _abhorrent excuse_ for a foster father into submission. I personally would've killed the fucker myself if haunting my own body wasn't so tiring.

I should look into finding her. Even if our relationship can never be the same, even if she's dead… some closure would bring me peace.

The T-Doll seated across from me notices my distraught expression and quickly backpedals. "I'm so sorry, Alcatraz! I didn't mean to bring up any bad memories!" she assures me. "It was insensitive of me to ask you that. You've been gone for almost four decades, haven't you…?"

When I wordlessly nod, she continues, "Again, I'm so sorry. I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now. You and your sister… were you… close?"

"She meant the world to me," I freely admit. Memories of the years spent raising her come to the forefront: playing with her, studying with her, comforting her, everything a good big brother does. Although it was a hassle at times, the payout was well worth it. "We were poor. The Double Dip – you must've heard of that, you know, the major economic shitstorm some people called the 'Second Great Depression' – it hit us hard. But we took care of one another. As long as we had each other to lean on, it was enough. I worked whatever jobs I could find to keep the electricity running, and she handled all the domestic stuff. Cooking, cleaning, all the basics. She was making full meals by the time she was nine. Pretty impressive, huh?"

"She sounds like quite the special person. I would've loved to meet her."

I turn away to hide a smirk. Alice would've _adored _M4A1. She cared for me as much as I do for her, no question about it, though she did admit to me once that she sometimes wished for a sister. "Yeah, she was an angel. You two would've gotten along great."

"I'm glad to hear that." The Doll nods and smiles gently. "What about your parents?"

The smirk vanishes. Now she's just being nosy. "…I'd rather not talk about them."

I bite back a groan when it looks like she's about to ask something _else_ when we're suddenly jostled by yet another speed bump. I stay rooted in place, having long gotten used to handling difficult terrain during my tenure in the Marines. M4, not so much. She lets out a shriek when her precious rifle nearly jumps out the side of the truck.

Damir pokes his head out the driver's side window. "Apologies for the rough ride, comrades! We will arrive at the base shortly; I promise you this!"

He's gone before either of us can acknowledge him. Even over the roar of the dying animal that is the flatbed's engine, I hear Lev chastise his brother about taking his eyes off the road. Damir fires back that it was only for a second, and how if Lev thought he was truly being reckless, he would've taken the wheel by force.

I go back to watching the passing scenery, content to let the two siblings bicker. Idly I wonder how much longer it'll be until we reach the outpost's front gate.

Soon I resign myself to the fact that M4's dead set on filling the void with more conversation. "So, um… I guess we'll head our separate ways once I'm at base, huh?"

"I guess so."

"Where will you go?"

"Haven't decided yet," I tell her in all honesty. "Think I might travel the world. Explore a bit, see what's changed. Help out where I can. Maybe put some old demons to rest." I shrug my shoulders lightly. "Dunno, really. I want to keep my options open."

She nods. "I understand. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for, Alcatraz." She gives me a warm, sincere smile. "And… thank you again for all you've done. Even though we've known each other for less than a day, you've been a huge help to me."

I snort and look away again, hoping she doesn't see the flush of color in my cheeks. I'm not used to getting compliments from strangers – the media in my time had a field day painting military servicemen as monsters over some of the unethical shit we resorted to in the name of 'peacekeeping'. Besides, I didn't really do much. All I did was tell her I saw a couple of Griffin Dolls and escort her to that village. I did nothing worth the amount of praise she's heaping on me.

She's quick to disagree when I point that out. "That's not true! If you hadn't been around, those Ceph Stalkers would've… I wouldn't be…" She shivers and shakes her head, dispelling the thought. "You gave me food, and a place to rest. That's more than most people would do for a mere Doll. And if you hadn't accompanied me, I would've stayed clear of the village, meaning there wouldn't have been a battle, meaning Lev and Damir wouldn't have come to investigate, meaning-"

"Okay, okay, I get your point." I raise both hands to placate the android. Passive verbal scans inform me she's getting distressed, and her being in hysterics when we arrive at base is a headache I don't need. "I'm, um, happy. To have helped."

M4 visibly relaxes. Then, shyly, she asks me, "Will you come visit sometime?"

I'm thrown for a loop for the second time in only a few minutes. "I'm sorry, _what_?"

"After this is all over and done with… When the data's been delivered, and the rest of AR Team is rescued…" The girl puts on a brave face. Have to admit, it looks more adorable than serious. "I'd like to keep in touch with you. A lot has changed since 2023, and… I'm worried about you being overwhelmed."

She wants to see me again…? I'm so shocked that it almost doesn't register when we hit a particularly nasty bump in the road.

Wow. Okay. That's… kind of unexpected, but it's not a bad thing. No, definitely not.

M4 subconsciously drums her fingers on the gun in her lap. "If it were me in your position, I'm not sure what I'd do either… but I know for certain I wouldn't want to be alone. You can come visit me at Griffin HQ between your travels. I could introduce you to my sisters! We're often busy, but we'll make it work, somehow."

"M4-"

"You had a sister. You had a future, and it was taken away from you," she cuts me off, and I get the feeling her mind isn't in the here-and-now anymore. She lowers her head, black hair covering her eyes. "That's not _fair_. If you hadn't defeated the Ceph, then I never would've been built. Humanity would be extinct. The whole planet would be overrun by those monsters, or worse. Everyone alive owes you a debt, Alcatraz, and I can't sit idly by and let our savior feel like he's unappreciated. If you ever need someone to talk to... If you need to get something off your chest… I'll listen. I don't want you to feel like you're alone. I want us to, umm…"

She fidgets, voice lowering to a whisper. "I'd like for us to be… friends. If that's okay with you."

Part of me immediately wants to tell her no, that I can't afford to let my guard down around Dolls when there's a very real possibility they could turn rogue and backstab me without warning. It happened to Sangvis Ferri, after all, so who's to say Griffin & Kryuger's Dolls won't meet the same fate?

That part of me shuts the hell up when she lifts her head to give me the most brutally effective pair of puppy dog eyes I've ever seen. I mean… I _guess _it couldn't hurt to throw the girl a bone. I'm back to having no friends now that Chino's gone, and artificial lifeform or no, M4A1 does seem to hold genuine sympathy for my situation.

Or pity. Same difference.

"I suppose I don't have a problem with that. One condition, though," I add before she can get too excited. "No one can know about the Nanosuit, got it? _No one_. In fact, don't tell anyone anything about me at all, period."

She nods, suddenly all smiles. Seeing a face like that, the happiness on her youthful features, I know I've made the right choice. "Don't worry, I won't say a word. Your secret's safe with me."

Her smile's infectious. I hide my grin behind a half-empty bottle of whiskey; if she asks, I'll just tell her I'm drinking in honor of our friendship or some bullshit like that.

I polish off a good amount of alcohol when Lev leans out the passenger's side window to address us: "We are almost there, you two! Ten minutes, perhaps less if Damir stops challenging the fucking potholes!"

"A true Russian overcomes all obstacles!" we all hear the elder Paskov declare.

Lev ignores his brother, turning his attention to me specifically. "I would mentally prepare myself, if I were you." He warns ominously. "I'm not sure if your pet Doll has already brainwashed you into singing Griffin's praises, though if she hasn't, then take it from a fellow human: That base is nothing more than a collection of _circus freaks _under the oversight of a psychotic old man."

At first I think he has to be exaggerating. A quick glance at M4, however, leaves me feeling worried. She's not smiling anymore. In fact, she's not making any move to rebuke what Lev is saying.

All she does is give me a shrug that says, "_Hey, don't look at _me_. I've never been to this base before either._"

"Whatever business you two have, do it quick," Lev advises. "The less time we spend there, the less chance I have of seeing… _urgh_…" The man shivers through his hoodie, and now I'm _really _concerned, because he doesn't strike me as the type of guy to let his fear show. "You know what, forget about it. Just don't waste time, uh… what is that Yankee phrase… _ponying around_."

He disappears into the cab before I can correct him. I look at M4 again, making no effort to hide the sudden wariness in my expression.

"While I'll admit some of Griffin's T-Dolls are programmed to be a bit… err, _eccentric_... I think he's blowing it out of proportion." She tries to reassure me. "I've spent my whole life around G&K personnel and have very fond memories of them. There's no need for you to worry, Alcatraz."

She shoots me an encouraging smile. "I think you'll like it at Griffin – trust me."

I hope she's right about that, otherwise I'm jumping ship faster than Chino's biological dad.

* * *

**(Griffin & Kryuger Forward Observation Base 796)**

I wonder if I can cloak and sneak away without anyone noticing. I wonder how thick the walls surrounding the outpost are, and if I can bulldoze my way through them in a desperate effort to escape. I wonder how many people would judge me for doing so. I know Lev wouldn't.

It's not the FOB itself that spurred these thoughts; in fact, it's a welcoming slice of familiarity for a grunt like me: barracks, armory, motor pool, recreational building, all that good stuff. It's surrounding what I assume is the central command center, nestled squat in the middle of the square-shaped plot of land. All the usual commodities for a military base are present here.

There are also some _un_usual ones.

My eyes wander over a neon sign hung over the doorframe of a building that looks as out of place as I feel. _Griffin Café _is proudly displayed in bold red cursive, and as our little group walks from the motor pool to the command center, I see through the windows a gaggle of Dolls seated at polished wooden tables – chatting, laughing, and most importantly, dining on food that's way too classy for a military compound. Well, I guess it's technically private military, but still.

My stomach gurgles. I have to fight down the urge to slip away and help myself to a proper meal. Maybe later, if time permits.

Oh, and did I mention the dorms? It's like Griffin stole a wealthy college campus' residential buildings and set them down adjacent to the barracks. They must have deep pockets if they can afford to build infrastructure like that.

At least the air's clean. None of the human personnel I see are wearing hazmat gear, and the twins, knowing there's no risk of breathing in mutagenic radiation, have taken off their respirators.

Neither of the above oddities hold a candle compared to the T-Dolls themselves, though.

I thought I'd been adequately prepared for this, you know? I thought I knew what to expect after spending some time around M4. But there are some things you're just never ready for no matter how much you psyche yourself up beforehand, like boot camp or a Tommy Wiseau movie marathon. Griffin's T-Dolls are turning out to be another prime example.

"Damir…" I speak up slowly, eyes gluing themselves to a busty blonde hefting around a machine gun that's over a century old by now. "Why is that one not wearing pants?"

It's a valid question – a disturbing number of these Dolls are wearing miniskirts. _Miniskirts_. In a _military _base. What kind of backwards chain of command does Griffin have?

Damir lets out a hearty laugh. Besides M4, he's the only one who seems to be taking the weirdness in stride. "Ah, you mean comrade MG3? I asked the commander about that once. He told me he saw no difference in their combat performance whether they fought in a cutting-edge uniform or a burlap sack, so the dress code for his Dolls is… oh, what is your English word… lax?"

MG3 notices me staring at her. She smiles and winks before heading in the armory's direction, out of sight. I wonder how she's not freezing her ass off in this weather. I wonder what kind of special nutjob this Commander is if he can get away with such bullshittery without a superior breathing down his neck.

Lev scoffs, pulling his hood down further. He's been on constant edge ever since the sentries at the front gate allowed us through.

"Now you see why I don't like it here," he grumbles. "At least with the KCCO there's a semblance of order. They have structure. Discipline. Here, all I see is…" He looks around and shivers in disgust. His fingers twitch, seeking the comfort of the Grendel he was forced to leave with the motor pool's staff. "A mockery. Look at those _things_, parading around in their undergarments. This place is a den of sin…"

I'm about to ask who or what this 'KCCO' faction is when M4 suddenly pipes up: "Do you have a problem with Dolls, Mr. Lev?"

There's no accusation in her tone, nor disappointment. Just innocent curiosity.

The younger twin eyes her critically. "Would you blame me if I did? Can you, when Sangvis Ferri's own products massacred their creators and are now on a mission to destroy all humans? _Da_, I hate Dolls!"

"You don't really mean that, Lev." Damir turns to face his brother.

Uh-oh. He just broke one of the golden rules: _Never _tell your sibling what to feel. I should probably say something before an argument breaks out… but then again, I might be able to glean some valuable insight by letting it happen. I still don't know much about these hunters, and people are often more expressive with their true feelings when they're upset.

M4 wisely decides to keep her mouth shut. She's wearing a guilty expression, probably blaming herself for the sudden downturn in the mood. Though in all honesty it totally is her fault.

Lev shakes his head, expression twisting into a scowl. "No, I do! We've been over this before! I hate _all _Dolls, Damir! Every single one of them! Especially that annoying, obnoxious, clingy, good-for-nothing little-"

"DAAAAAAARRRRRRRRLIIIIIIIIIING!"

I hear Lev mutter "God is dead" under his breath a split second before a red-white-and-brown blur whizzes past us and _slams_ him full force into the pavement.

"Darling, you came back early! Was it because you missed me?" The perpetrator nuzzles her cheek against his collarbone. Her limbs are wrapped around the poor man's body in an octopus hug, meaning he can't escape no matter how much he struggles – and believe me, he's trying.

"Oh, darling, you've made me so happy! You know I _always _miss you when you're not here!"

"Let go of me, you little freak!"

I look at Damir and M4. The former is grinning stupidly, while the latter's gone wide-eyed and has a hand pressed over her mouth in shock. I look back at the small android threatening to suffocate the human in her embrace. I notice the tail waving excitedly for the first time. There's a bell tied to the end of it.

I open my mouth to comment, and nothing comes out.

Because seriously, where do I even start with this one? There's so much going on with her appearance that I'm not sure where to begin. She's definitely a Doll, I can tell that right away, though she's the most bizarre-looking one I've seen so far bar none. The best way I can describe her is an America-themed cheerleader genetically spliced with a black cat. Wait, scratch that: When I peer closer, I realize the cat ears are actually just hair ornaments. The tail, however, is moving on its own.

...I think I need to lie down.

"_Snrrk_…_ Privyet_, comrade Mk23…" Damir's barely managing to avoid breaking into a giggling fit. "It is good to see you again. Lively as ever, I see!"

Mk23 (one of the spiritual predecessors to the M12 Nova, if I'm remembering my gun history right) turns her head, regarding our ragtag group with one red eye and one blue eye.

"Hi Damir!" she greets in a cheerful, friendly manner. "Hi stranger! Hi-"

She pauses; mismatched eyes sharpen into steel when they land on M4. I hope I'm only imagining the low growling noise. "Who the heck's _that_?" she hisses.

It takes M4 a moment to snap out of her shock. She smiles and waves, but it's a stiff gesture. Forced. To be fair, it's more than I would've done.

"Um, hello. I'm Tactical Doll M4A1. I assume you know Damir and Lev? I only met them earlier today, but they've been very helpful. Anyway, the reason I'm here is because I have something important to give to your commander, so if you could point me in his direction, that would be-"

"WE WILL FIGHT FOR LEV."

M4 blinks. "…Excuse me?"

Mk23 rises to her full height – which is still amusingly short – pointing an accusatory finger at her fellow android. When Lev tries to get to his feet, she immediately hooks her free arm around his waist and pulls him into a bone-crushing side hug. Perhaps literally. I'm pretty sure I just heard a rib crack.

"Nobody gets between me and my darling, sister! You hear me?!" she snarls, baring her teeth. "What were you doing with him before you came here? Huh?! You better not have been making any moves on him, or else you and I are gonna have a serious problem!"

M4 desperately looks to me for aid. Having a Y chromosome and therefore no idea how to handle girl-related problems, I can only shrug.

It descends into chaos from there: M4 repeatedly tries in vain to convince Mk23 she has no romantic interest in her 'darling'. Mk23 ain't having none of that, overcome by jealousy toward what she perceives as a love rival. Damir's broken down into open laughter. And Lev? Lev just looks _done _with all of the insanity.

Fortunately, help finally arrives in the form of another young woman carrying one of those datapad things. Seems like she noticed the commotion while she was passing by and decided to intervene. At first glance I assume her to be a T-Doll; the unkempt orange-red hair and haphazardly thrown-together mishmash of clothing and accessories are, in my opinion, more befitting of the eccentric automatons than the human staff.

So imagine my bafflement when the artificial intelligence I share headspace with debunks my theory by confirming that she is, in fact, a regular human.

"Damir, Lev! This is a surprise; you guys weren't scheduled for another visit until Tuesday!" she says. Bright blue eyes roam over the odd duo of M4 and I. "Oh? Who are these two?"

Weirdly, she makes no move to acknowledge the thirsty Doll or how she's pinned her struggling crush back to the ground. I have a sneaking suspicion this isn't the first time this exact same scenario has happened.

"A couple of strays we picked up earlier this afternoon," Damir replies, just about finished recovering from his laughing fit. He reaches over and pats M4 on the head, prompting a scrunched-up face from the artificial girl that looks equal parts cute and annoyed. "Your commander always makes it a priority to rescue abandoned Dolls, _da_? I believe this one here was separated from Griffin, so I figured I'd save us all some trouble by bringing her to base myself."

"Hi." M4 straightens her hair and smiles shyly. "I'm M4A1."

Damir looks over to me. "This man, on the other hand… I do not know much about him. He was traveling with M4 and carries a big enough grudge against Sangvis to actively fight against them, but that is about it. Seems competent with a gun, too."

The redhead fixes me with an unsettlingly deep stare. I immediately slap on the poker face and try to play it cool. Fuck, why did he have to say that?

I have to force down a sudden surge of paranoia-born panic. My mind rewinds to the days I spent terrorizing SF in the forest so long ago, remembering how I'd unintentionally built up a reputation at Griffin & Kryuger as some kind of unhinged Doll killer. I became a fable, a fantasy, an urban legend. I'm the monster in the closet that eats young T-Dolls when they misbehave. This chick in front of me is eyeing my whole body up and down, searching for any sign that I might be more inhuman than I appear on the surface.

I've only just met this girl and I can already tell she's a smart cookie.

Also a bad judge of character apparently, because she puts her tablet under one arm and extends a gloved hand for me to shake. "Well, it's great to meet you both!" she chirps when I accept the gesture. "It's not often we have outsiders deliver lost Dolls straight to our doorstep. I'll let the Commander know to reward you for this!"

She cocks her head curiously. "I really like your eyes, by the way. They're the same color as mine! And… how are you making them glow like that?"

"Implants," I automatically respond, having thought up a cover story during the ride here. "It was an experimental procedure meant to correct vision problems and enhance normal eyesight. It worked, but… there were side effects. No known fix. Ethical standards back in the USA have really gotten sidelined these past few years."

The girl sighs. "Tell me about it. It seems like more and more countries these days are willing to cross lines we never even thought existed." Her expression changes to a good-natured grin. "Well, if it helps, I think the glowy eyes really suit you! They make you look… hmm… dangerous! You know, in a 'don't mess with me' sort of way!"

"Uh, thanks?"

"My name's Kalina, by the way." The girl briefly pauses to check her tablet, types something in with dexterous fingers, then puts it away again. "I'm the chief logistics officer here at Frontline Base 796! Inventory, resource procurement and distribution, that sort of stuff. I'm also the Commander's right-hand woman when we send our echelons out on field ops!"

Kalina's eye twitches; her smile becomes strained. "Though lately he's been keeping me cooped up in the data room typing battle reports. Endless… fucking… battle reports."

I don't know how to respond to that. "Oh. That's... great." Initiating emergency topic change: "I'm James. I'm what you might call a survival expert."

"An expert, huh? You mean like the hosts of those old TV shows who teach viewers how to make fires and stuff?"

I shrug. "Something like that."

She's not exactly wrong, per se, nor am I lying. Some of my Force Recon survival training took place in the humid jungles of Vietnam, right before the climate disaster transformed most of the country into a frozen wonderland. To put it lightly, it was a miserable few weeks, although we did discover Folsom made a bangin' caterpillar-and-rice stew. Tasted way better than it sounds.

"Wow, that's so cool!" Kalina openly gushes. "I've never heard of someone striking it out on their own before. Most people live in walled-off communities designed to ward away ELID and Sangvis."

"Not everyone, though," Damir interjects. "The village Lev and I come from is rather small, but it has never once come under attack. Some say we are blessed with good luck; as for me, I think SF simply ignores us. There is nothing of strategic value there. Is good and safe life, _da_?"

Keep your head down and hope the bigger fish doesn't notice you. Yeah, I know what _that _feels like.

"Darling, why are you resisting? What do I have to do to make you understand how much I love you? I'll be anything you want!"

"I want you to be _dead_!"

Oh, right. Lev. Almost forgot about him. I should probably give the guy a hand.

While I'm mentally weighing the pros and cons of prying the horny android off by force, Kalina's one step ahead of me: "Mk23, didn't your echelon come back from a search-and-destroy mission yesterday? Did you remember to upload your combat data to the main server?"

"Oh crap, I totally forgot!" the cat-girl-robot-cheerleader-whatever exclaims in alarm. She quickly scampers off to parts unknown, and Lev, clutching his chest, brushes M4's helping hand away as he gets to his feet. A quick check of his biometrics informs me he got no enjoyment out of Mk23's smothering.

"Fuck that bitch," he says between gasps. Funny, I once said the exact same thing to Prophet about my mom. "No, seriously. _Ty che, blyat_. I would murder that thing with my own hands were it not the Commander's property."

"I think it's cute," Kalina giggles.

…That's odd. My passive sensors – which have no understanding of 'TMI', by the way – are picking up a sudden increase in her estrogen production. But the data's saying it happens when she looks at…

Oh.

Oh, Lev. You poor, poor motherfucker. You have my deepest sympathies. As well as my old squad's admiration, I'm sure.

I wonder if he's aware of this. I'm guessing he isn't, otherwise I'm fairly certain he would've put a bullet in his head by now.

Kalina, for her part, does a fine job hiding it. "Now that our resident cat with a crush has been taken care of… if you guys are here to see the Commander, why not come with me? I was actually just on my way to see him." She checks her tablet again. "He should be finishing up his meeting with the Director by now, so this is the perfect time to introduce him to M4! He loves getting to know all the new Dolls on base!"

M4 pounces on the offer. "Yes, let's do that. There's a lot I need to discuss with him, and every second wasted puts more lives in danger."

"Well when you put it _that _way…" The redhead spins on her heel and walks toward the central command building. "C'mon, everybody! Let's go and say hello!"

* * *

**(Base 796 Command Center)**

Kalina leads us into the whitewashed lobby and down a whitewashed hallway with whitewashed floors and a whitewashed ceiling. The place feels more like a hospital than anything military-related, and I find myself subconsciously anticipating and bracing for the overpowering odor of antiseptic that never comes. Every minute or so we walk by a human staff member wearing a maroon longcoat with G&K's insignia stitched onto the breast. Damir greets some of them in passing; I wonder how long he and his brother have been doing business with the company.

I make sure to commit every detail, every face I see here to memory. This place is so different from Sangvis Ferri's research facility it's almost ironic. The facility was dark, cold, and in pretty shitty condition; a consequence of its owners having long abandoned it after their creations took over the reins. Griffin's command post, on the flipside, is lively and full of energy. The paintjob's also more aesthetically pleasing if you're a fan of the color white.

I take special note of a red-faced, weedy-looking fellow conversing with a Doll in a nurse's outfit (_Ooh, kinky_) over a cup of instant coffee. Dude's hormone levels are off the charts, and if the sly smirk on his companion's porcelain face is anything to go by, she's all too aware of it.

An involuntary shudder courses through me when I think back to the whole Mk23 incident. I'm bolting if I catch one of these T-Dolls sending 'fuck me' eyes my way, no if's and's or but's.

As we're walking, Kalina prattles on about this Commander guy from the front of the pack: "Did you know he used to be a member of not just one, but _two _elite special forces groups? Delta Force _and _SAS! Can you believe it?! Griffin's base commanders are usually young and receive on-the-job training, so I was surprised when Mr. Kryuger managed to hire a veteran with so many years of combat experience under his belt!"

…Something's itching in the corner of my brain. I can't quite put a finger on what it is, if it's some kind of buried memory or something, but the logistics officer's description of this man sounds strangely familiar.

"Did he ever fight the Ceph?" I decide to probe further.

From the corner of my vision, I see M4 shoot me a confused glance. I pretend not to see it.

Kalina looks back and nods, smiling brightly. "Oh, yes! He fought in every major Ceph incursion up until the Bloom. Just imagine, fighting against the alien menace for so many years and coming out alive at the end of it all…" Her voice drops to a hushed whisper. "He was at the place where it all began, believe it or not. I did some digging and found out he was one of the first people to witness their awakening."

She winks at me. "Let's keep that little tidbit between us, though. He doesn't know that _I _know."

"Actually, he does." Lev flatly states. "We were here on the day you did your, ahem, 'research'. I'd never seen you so spooked by anything before. Your hands were shaking so badly, you spilled hot coffee on your lap and you did not even notice."

"Plus, you also forgot to delete your browser history, if what the Commander said is true." Damir quips.

"_Da_. Sometimes I wonder if he makes you write all those battle reports as a form of punishment."

"You guys…" Kalina groans. She perks up a moment later when we reach our destination: a simple wooden door proudly emblazoned with G&K's logo. "In that case, if you have any further questions, you can ask him yourself!"

As she reaches for the knob, she somehow either doesn't hear the argument going on behind the door or doesn't care about interrupting. Sounds like it's between a man and a woman. The woman's voice is the clearer of the two, definitely more heated, but… the man's voice…

My mind is _screaming_ that I know it from somewhere. That voice, the accent it carries… where have I heard it before?

I don't have time to ponder before Kalina opens the door, revealing the Commander in all his glory.

And I swear to Lev's dead god I see a ghost.

He's got his hands tucked behind his bald head, combat boots propped up on the edge of a high-tech table emitting a blue hologram of a woman, watching with a bored face while she rants at him. He looks older than when I last saw him – there are wrinkles under his eyes, and he seems, I dunno, less beefy than I remember – but it's _him_, man, it's Raptor Team's fucking second-in-command, still alive and kicking after all these decades.

My knees grow wobbly. It takes a herculean amount of effort not to pussy out and faint. The room feels like it's spinning, so much so that I have to actively strain to pay attention to their conversation.

"How can you not be worried when there's so much at stake?" the holographic woman snaps, glaring at him through her monocle. Neither party seems to notice the five of us standing in the doorway with our thumbs up our asses. "The number of SF in your area has grown exponentially over the last few days, Commander, not to mention the continued search for-"

"The missing members of AR Team, I know, I know. You're preaching to the choir, sweetheart." Michael Sykes cuts her off with a carefree smirk. "I got the memo yesterday. Operation Sugarcube, eh? I don't know which one of you blokes at HQ names these ops, but that sounds a tad pornographic in my professional opinion."

His boss yells something else but I tune it out; the sheer magnitude of the situation hits me like a goddamn freight train.

That's Michael Sykes. Psycho. Fucking _Psycho _is the commander of this base. He went private, he works for Griffin & Kryuger now, he's the one in charge of all these weird-ass Dolls. And he's _here_, man, sitting ten feet away from me and he's fucking _alive_.

Psycho is alive. And he's here.

That revelation alone suddenly makes this whole apocalyptic future a little less bleak. This is… I can't put all of the emotions I'm feeling into words.

My brain is so overloaded I almost don't notice the gentle tug at my sleeve.

"James?" M4's soft voice snaps me back to reality. "You were spacing out again. Is something wrong? You look pale…"

"Huh? Oh, uh, I'm fine. Nothing's wrong." Nope, nothing at all. I've just been reunited with the best friend of the personality that kept driving my body after I died; nothing major.

"Can you blame him for being scared?" Damir asks half-jokingly. "Even when she is in an agreeable mood, Director Helian is a terrifying lady. Only a person with an iron will like Commander Sykes can work under her."

Good ol' Damir, giving me an easy excuse. Between the ride to base and unintentionally bailing me out of awkward conversations, my debt to the guy is steadily climbing. I'll have to buy him a drink sometime.

Okay. Time to focus, marine. Important stuff is happening in front of you; freak out over Psycho being here later.

"Have you at least made any progress finding out what this… _unknown entity_… lurking in your territory is?" the woman, Helian, goes on.

"Yeah, about that… Whatever the fuck that thing is, it seems to be gone now. There's been a sharp decline in activity around the sector's border lately." Sykes shrugs in a 'what-can-you-do' kind of manner. "Too bad, really. Can't deny it was doing us a favor. Plus FAL gets all hissy whenever she thinks she failed a mission."

Helian's hologram folds its arms. "Duly noted. I know you haven't been with us for long, Commander Sykes, and your extensive service record speaks for itself, but please see to it that you don't slack on your responsibilities. Mr. Kryuger has faith in your leadership abilities – it wouldn't look good for the company's image if that faith were to be misplaced."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart." He replies with a wink.

"And stop calling me that!"

She reaches for an invisible object and blinks out of existence a moment later. Psycho exhales loudly, then spins his office chair around to properly face his new guests.

"Sorry 'bout that. She's a bitch sometimes, but she doesn't bite. I think." He pauses. Blinks. "Erm, Kalina? What's with the motley crew?"

M4 worms her way to the front of the crowd before the redhead can open her mouth. "Commander! I've been searching for you for so long; it's an honor to finally meet you!" She does a quick, polite bow. "I'm M4A1, leader of AR Team. I assume you've been informed about us?"

"AR Team?" Sykes leans back in his chair, surprise etched on his weathered face. "The same AR Team my boss just told me to keep an eye out for? The one every G&K commander in a hundred-mile radius has orders to find?... Shit, well that was easy."

"It's been quite a hectic experience, actually," the Doll sighs. She straightens her posture, motioning to us with a metal hand. "You have these three nice gentlemen to thank for bringing me here. Especially him." She points to me specifically. "I would've been killed last night if he hadn't intervened when he did."

Psycho looks me square in the eye. Studies me. The wheels in his head are turning, attempting to figure me out. For a moment I swear I see a hint of recognition flash through those moss-colored orbs.

After a few seconds, he smiles. "What's your name, son?"

_"You don't have a name. _People _have names. _You _have a call sign and a serial number!__"_

I do my best to ignore the pressure building in my head. "James," I answer plainly.

"James, eh? I'm Michael Sykes, commander of Base 796. Thanks a bunch for escorting M4 here; if the report Helian gave me is accurate, we've been tearing half the country apart looking for this little bugger!"

All eyes turn to the T-Doll. She lowers her head, suddenly very interested in her feet.

Psycho laughs. "Not much of an attention seeker, is she? Cheer up, love – you're among friends here."

The next several minutes are a blur of conversation. Psycho and M4 exchange mission-related chit-chat, carefully omitting anything overly sensitive. We let them be. SECOND doesn't seem all that interested in deciphering whatever hidden messages there may be, anyway.

Kalina, growing bored as time marches on, decides to share some recent intel with Damir and Lev; the same subject she came here to tell Sykes: The heightened Sangvis activity lately might not be a coincidence. As their village's unofficial liaisons, the twins take the news very seriously, and together the three of them begin drawing up plans to keep Griffin-protected settlements safe from the SF menace.

I become a pariah, forgotten and left to observe.

I look around the spacious command room. It's more polished than anything I've seen before, more high-tech. Computer monitors hang on every wall; most are displaying satcam images, though a few show status bars and vital signatures for different Doll echelons. The holotable, the one where Helian's image stood before, dominates the center of the room. It's all so, so… _different _than what I'm used to. Is all this fancy tech normal nowadays, or is G&K just filthy rich? Did CELL ever own stuff like this?

My gaze shifts to the top brass in the room. I think back to our brief exchange. I think back to when Michael motherfucking Sykes, one of the few survivors of Lingshan, Prophet's best friend, smiled at me.

Prophet's best friend…

Something in my head goes _click_.

"Commander Sykes." I interrupt suddenly. I snap a clean salute, more out of habit than anything. Goddamn military lifestyle. "Permission to tour the café, sir?"

"Eh?" The aging man turns away from M4, regarding me with an odd look. Probably wondering where some random jackoff in disheveled civvies learned to salute like that. "Well, um, sure. I suppose that's fine. Why the sudden interest, mate?"

My hand falls to my side. "I thought it would be obvious – I'm fucking _starving_. Erm. Sir." Once again, I mentally block out the feeling of M4's eyes watching me.

"Enough with the 'sir' shit, kid. You're making me feel my age." He chuckles in good humor. "Sure though, why not? It's the least I can do to repay you after whatever trouble you must've gone through bringing little M4 here. Need a guide?"

My skin crawls at the thought of a Doll like Mk23 being assigned as my escort. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'll yell if someone tries to abduct me."

Psycho grins, nodding once before resuming his talk with M4. I turn and leave the room without another word, retracing my steps to the building's front door. I need to be alone for a while. I need some time to think.

_Growllll…_

Above all else, I need a goddamn meal.

* * *

**(Griffin Café)**

A bell jingles overhead when I enter the café. It's the scent I notice first, however: smoky and sweet at the same time, like glazed ham. I swallow the saliva pooling up in my mouth as my nostrils are overpowered by the wafting aroma of cooked meat and other treats.

Griffin's café is built in a roughly rectangular shape; the entrance is straight across from the restrooms, and down the aisle to the right is a long bar area overlooking several booths with cushioned seats. The other end of the restaurant opens up somewhat, packed with the round tables I saw through the windows earlier. A small handful of Dolls in waitress outfits – white dress shirts, black pants, black aprons – are coming and going from some back area out of view, most likely the kitchen, delivering plates of food to their sisters and human superiors alike who came here to relax and unwind after a long day of work.

It's late in the afternoon and business looks slow, meaning the lunch rush probably already came and went. Having done a part-time stint as a busboy for a family-owned restaurant once, I know a thing or two about how the food industry runs.

A real shame it closed down. I liked the place, even if the pay wasn't great.

"Welcome to Griffin Café!" a sweet-sounding voice greets me. My head swivels to the bar counter, eyes settling on a young woman with long copper hair tied in a ponytail. She's in the middle of cleaning a mug with a dishrag.

She shoots me a disarming smile. "Take a seat anywhere you'd like, sir. Someone will be right with you!"

The booths are where most of the other customers are seated, so naturally I move to the tables and plant myself in the most isolated spot I can find. I pass the waiting period grinding my Knowledge stat with my favorite pastime of people-watching. Or maybe it's Doll-watching in this case.

Wait, is that…? Fuck me sideways.

Snow White and Dummy Thicc are chatting over coffee near the opposite corner of the room. I mentally slap myself; how could I forget those two are also under Sykes' command? They don't seem to have noticed me, so not all hope is lost yet. Still though…

It's going to be okay, Alcatraz. They never actually spotted me, and even if they did, they would've seen the Nanosuit and not the human inside. Besides, FAL doesn't have that stupid ferret with her. Just act natural and it'll all work out.

My fingers drum restlessly on the tabletop. I fidget in my seat like I'm holding in a massive dump.

Sadly, this is natural.

"Can I start you off with something to drink?"

I almost rocket out of my chair into the ceiling; I'm wound up so tight I wasn't paying attention when the waitress came over. Jesus Christ, I need to calm down – this is a friendly frontline base, for fuck's sake, not a POW camp.

Hold up a second. "I thought you were the bartender?"

The same girl who welcomed me, now holding a notepad and pen, smiles and shrugs. "She who holds the position of manager is burdened with many jobs," she says with an air of wisdom. With a flourish, she produces a menu seemingly from thin air and sets it down in front of me. "Don't worry, I can multitask. Now about that drink…?"

Since I was too busy being an idiot to browse the separate beverage menu, I say the first thing that comes to mind. The waitress hums and nods, writing it down. I watch her carefully. On the outside she looks like a regular human woman – no wild hair colors, no mechanical limbs I can see, no ridiculous outfit, nothing of the sort. Instead she possesses curves in all the right places, outlined by the tight apron she's wearing, and further accentuated by her generous height and healthy complexion. The whole package is tied together by a pretty face with a kind, almost motherly smile. She's attractive, I have no shame in admitting, but not in an exotic way.

Looks can be deceiving, however.

"You're a T-Doll." I blurt out before I can stop myself. To her credit, she patiently waits until I'm done banging my head against the table before replying.

"Figured it out already, have you? Very impressive." Verdant eyes dance with amused intrigue. "What gave it away?"

Gee, I don't know. Maybe it's because your movements are a bit too unnatural, a bit too controlled to be human. Or maybe it's because my personal AI outright says you're an android. Not that I can tell her that, though.

"I think the human staff at base would have more important things to do than run a café." I pause for a moment. "No offense."

She giggles. "None taken. You're a perceptive one, aren't you? Did you come here with Lev and Damir Paskov?" When I nod, she continues, "It took them nearly two weeks to learn the truth for themselves. Yes, I am a Doll." She beams at me, all sunshine and smiles. "M1903 Springfield, at your service!"

An unknown cosmic force compels me to give her my full name in turn. "James Rodriguez. The pleasure's mine."

"James…" Springfield rolls the name around on her tongue, testing it. She grins impishly. "Do you need a minute to order, James?"

A teaser, huh? Joke's on her: I'm hungry enough to eat table scraps, so every item on the menu is fair game.

I end up ordering a late breakfast: smoked sausages and eggs with home fries and a side of bacon. Springfield jots it all on her notepad, never losing her pace as she asks how I like my eggs and what type of toast I prefer. When she's got everything down, she promises to return shortly with my drink before departing to the kitchen, humming a little tune the whole way.

My eyes follow her until she disappears through the doors. Huh… I'm not sure what I expected from an eatery at a base where insanity reigns supreme. Maybe a clown. But definitely not a nice, normal girl. If it weren't for my unique augments, I never would've guessed she wasn't a real human. How lifelike can these Dolls get?

She comes back a short while later with a tall glass of apple juice (don't fucking judge me, I panicked), and after ten more minutes fly by returns a second time with a steaming hot plate balanced in each hand. I openly salivate as she places my meal down in front of me.

"Enjoy!" she sings.

Oh, I will. I am going to _savor _this moment. I politely thank her and wait until she's out of sight before throwing myself at the food like a starved hound.

The sausages are cooked to perfection, neither too red nor too dark in the middle. They last maybe thirty seconds before they're gone, and I quickly zero in on the scrambled eggs next, forking a chunk and bringing it to my mouth. It's so delicious and fluffy I almost moan from the foodgasm; the only reason I don't is because I'm in a public space. I wash it down with some fruit juice and continue my assault on the hapless eggs.

Yes, I know I'm making the experience sound dramatic. I don't care. This is the first full meal I've eaten since the night before we set out to New York, and even then, it was one of those crappy TV dinners with more salt than meat in them. The last time I ate something home-cooked was when I took some leave to visit… Alice…

I gaze at my reflection in the already empty plates. Not for the first time, my thoughts drift toward home.

"What's up, buttercup?"

It takes all of my willpower, all of my self-restraint, to not pick up the glass and use it as a projectile weapon. The girl across from me, unaware of how close she'd come to having her central processor filled with shrapnel, plops down in the opposite chair, a plate of French toast in hand.

Another employee, I note in relief, allowing myself to relax. The uniform and apron confirm it. This one looks a bit like M4. That is, if M4 had teal hair and yellow eyes.

"You're that James fellow everyone's talking about, right?" A lazy smirk spreads over her lips at my dumbfounded look. "Surprised? News travels fast around here, and right now the word on base is Damir and Lev showed up early with a couple of new faces in tow." She reaches for the maple syrup and begins pouring it over her toast. "So. First time at a Griffin outpost?"

"…Yes." I openly stare at the amount of sugary death she's threatening to drown her food in. And she's not slowing down.

"Thought so. You have that whole 'fish out of water' vibe most newbies get on their first visit. It's cool, though – the people and Dolls here are friendly to outsiders. Well. Most of them are, anyway."

By now the syrup is close to spilling over the edge of her plate. She finally shuts the cap and puts the bottle away. If either of us were full-blooded humans, we would've gotten Type 2 diabetes just _looking _at the mess she made.

My new acquaintance forks in a glob of liquid sugar. "Oh yesh, almosht forgot tuh introdushe myshelf," she says with her mouth full. "M249 SHAW..." She swallows, licking the syrup off her lips. "Sorry. M249 SAW. You can call me M249, though. Or SAW. Or Bubblegum Princess, if you wanna make it weird."

I'd… rather not. "I think I'll stick with M249."

"Booo. You're no fun." She blows a light raspberry at me.

Putting my exasperation that_ someone _thought it would be a smart idea to give this girl access to a light machine gun aside, there's something I'm curious about. "You're an employee, right? Shouldn't you be, you know… working?"

"I'm on break," she replies easily, shrugging.

"Then why sit with me? I don't remember handing out invitations."

"I dunno. Felt like it." M249 shrugs again. "Also, you haven't told me to leave yet."

I'm getting slightly annoyed. I came here for food and time alone with my thoughts; if I wanted company, I would've sought it out. "So if I do tell you to leave, would you?" The irritation grows when she shakes her head, blue hair rippling with the motion.

"Nope." She pops the 'p'. "One thing you're quickly gonna learn about us T-Dolls is that we don't really give a shit about personal space. Totally not our fault, though. If you're gonna blame someone, blame our creator for programming us like this." She eyes me intensely all of a sudden, scooping up more of her half-dissolved French toast. "Speaking of which… The main reason I came over is because you looked like you had a lot on your mind. Maybe I can, I dunno, lend an ear? If you need one, that is. Anything you tell me will stay between us. Pinky promise."

Were my emotions really that easy to read? Crap. This is what happens when I let my guard down – I end up inviting trouble. In this case, it's taken the form of an android who's long run out of fucks to give.

Though on the other hand, my thoughts are stuck between a rock and a hard place, and I didn't pick up any malicious intent in the girl's words. Not all actions carry ulterior motives; it's perfectly feasible she's offering for no other reason than out of the kindness of her heart (or whatever T-Dolls have in place of a heart). Maybe a different perspective would help.

The question is on the tip of my tongue when Springfield comes by yet again, presumably to check up on her customer. The manager frowns, her perpetually cheerful demeanor broken when she notices her employee sitting with me.

"M249 SAW, what are you doing?" She places her hands on her hips and taps her foot, awaiting an answer.

M249 sends her boss a small wave. "Hey, Spring. Just taking my break."

"…But you already went on break," Springfield points out.

"Well I didn't take one yesterday, so I'm making up for it."

"Ignoring how that isn't the way the system works… You weren't here yesterday. Neither of us were. Commander Sykes deployed our echelon to put down that rampaging Manticore, remember?"

Manticore? Like those winged beasts from Persian legend? Sounds ominous.

"Uhh… kinda?" M249 knits her brows together, lifting a finger to her chin in thought. "Might've slept through most of the op, to be honest."

Springfield pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. "Get back to work, M249. And please stop bothering our guest."

The machine gun Doll moves her plate aside so she can faceplant the table. "Uuuggh, you sound just like G36!" she moans into the wood. Then she raises her head to look at me, yellow eyes boring into mine as an idea comes to her.

"James doesn't mind, does he? You always say the most crucial element of good service is making your customers happy. If you ask me, keeping our guest entertained is just as productive as washing the dishes." She smirks and coyly winks. "Wouldn't you agree, big fella?"

I'm starting to get a grasp of her personality: Nice, easygoing, a little whimsical, but lazy to a fault. She's the type of girl who would put in the maximum amount of effort to make _no _effort.

My childhood buddies would've idolized her.

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. "I suppose."

Springfield makes a small, contemplative sound of acknowledgement. "Hmm… Well then. If that's how you want to play it…" She abruptly pulls a chair over from an empty table and seats herself between us.

"What the hell?!" M249 elegantly blurts, sliding her own chair back an inch.

"Your reasoning makes perfect sense, M249!" Springfield's amused smile is back in force, and it's one step away from evolving into a full-blown Cheshire grin. "As employees of Griffin Café, it is our sworn duty to ensure our customers have the best experience possible. And if that means keeping them company… then the more the merrier, I say!"

"Y-Y-You don't have to," the blue-haired girl stutters. "Really. I got this. Don't you always have like a hundred other things to do?"

"She who holds the position of manager is burdened with many jobs." I quote Springfield's earlier statement word-for-word, earning an impressed nod from the synthetic woman. "Besides, it's not busy. She can spare a few minutes to hang out with us for that _quality _experience."

M249 slumps in her chair, defeated. "And here I was thinking we could become friends…"

And that's how I spent the next half hour talking to a pair of Griffin's Tactical Dolls. There was one point where Springfield, delighted by the spotless plates in front of me, teasingly asked if I'd been living in the woods for a week eating nothing but nuts and berries. I choked on my own spit, and M249 laughed her ass off while the flustered manager apologized over a dozen times. Everything thankfully smoothed out after that little incident.

The relaxed atmosphere doesn't quite reach my heart, however. There's still a dull ache there, one that good food and company can't fix.

I think of Psycho's smile again. It was polite, but in the end that's all it was. It was a smile you'd give to a business partner or an amicable stranger – not to a friend. The more I dwell on it, the more I realize how him being here changes nothing.

Psycho, after all, is Prophet's best friend. Not mine.

The fucker didn't even recognize me. I'm positive he would've called me out on the spot if he did; subtlety's never been the British man's strong point. Should I tell him my identity? That I'm the same marine Prophet was reborn from? What would doing so accomplish? Do I have a right to force myself into the new life Sykes made for himself in the years after the war, the one he seems perfectly happy with?

No. Absolutely not. All that would do is open up old scars for the geezer. The new job, this base, even these Dolls… all of it belongs to him. He earned this. Factoring in the ongoing conflict with Sangvis Ferri, the last thing he needs is a ghost from his past hanging over his shoulder.

No matter which way I look at it, I don't belong here.

Springfield and M249 are oblivious to my worsening string of thoughts, of course. They're busy gossiping about the next batch of Dolls scheduled to be delivered to base sometime next month. They've both been so good to me; how would they react if I caused their Commander undue stress?

I remember M249's earlier offer to hear out my issues. Is it too late to accept? Suppose there's nothing to lose by trying.

"Are you happy here?" I ask out of the blue.

Both girls' faces turn to me, and both show their confusion. I verbally backspace: "I mean, have you ever stopped and thought whether you belong where you are? In a paramilitary company, as soldiers? Does it give you fulfillment?"

They exchange glances, and just like with real human females, I get the impression a whole mental conversation occurs between them over the span of a few seconds. They soon look back at me. "Kinda strange you'd ask a couple of Dolls that question," M249 eventually says, "seeing as we're basically just tools. What brings this up?"

I don't answer. Mostly because I don't know _how _to answer.

Springfield does. Emerald eyes widen, reaching some hidden realization. "Ahh. I think I'm beginning to see what the issue is." She puts her elbows on the table and folds her hands, resting her chin on them. "Tell me something, Mr. Rodriguez: How much do you know about the role of Dolls in society?"

No sense lying to her. "Not a lot. M4 said T-Dolls were created to supplement human workers after ELID wiped out half the population, but that's about it."

Springfield purses her lips. Her gaze sharpens, turns more critical. It feels like she's probing me. "Mostly correct. However, T-Dolls are generally geared toward military purposes, or any situation involving armed conflict. A-Dolls – Assistant Dolls – are the ones meant to fit into everyday life."

"But then why do so many T-Dolls on this base look and act like humans? Why are you both here, working at a restaurant when you were designed to be on the battlefield?"

"Because we didn't start our lives as T-Dolls," M249 explains. "You gotta remember, Griffin's a PMC. Their pockets aren't bottomless, contrary to popular belief, and true military-grade Dolls? Hella expensive. Don't even get me started on the legal shitstorm that would come with purchasing them. So Mr. Kryuger, in his infinite wisdom, decided to contact the spooks at IOP and buy up as many A-Dolls as he could. Then they hired the head researcher at 16LAB to make some… modifications."

Horror dawns on my features. "You mean… you guys were conscripted? By _force_?!" Human or not, _no one _should ever have to fight against their will! There are _laws _in place to prevent that! …Aren't there?

_"Welcome to the end of the world, marine."_

How much else has this apocalypse changed that I'm not aware of?

"Dolls are universally treated as second-class citizens or less, Mr. Rodriguez. We're seen as inferior to humans." Springfield says quietly. She gives me her best encouraging smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. "There's no need to worry about us, however. Commander Sykes treats everyone on base, human and Doll alike, as his own children. We were fortunate to be assigned to a man as wonderful as he is. Even if he can be a bit unorthodox at times."

M249 adds, "Besides, not _every_ T-Doll working for Griffin is sent to them straight from the factory. We can sign up for service the same way humans can. That's how I ended up here, actually."

"I see. That's reassuring."

It's unbelievable, almost, how different Griffin's Dolls are from Sangvis Ferri's. M4 was correct when she said SF was the black sheep. I feel like a goddamn moron for putting them all in the same basket; I should've known better from the beginning.

These two having lunch with me – the ones I've known for under an hour but honestly find myself warming up to – they're actively working to ensure I feel welcomed here. Springfield could've just taken my order and been done with it. M249 wasn't given commands to sit with me. It was _their _decision to be hospitable; it was _their _decision to reach out to the quiet dude with weird eyes. That kind of empathy, the ability to _feel_, goes beyond any level of programming.

I recall M4's dogged determination to reach this base. Not just for the sake of completing her given mission, but to secure aid in finding her lost sisters. The fond manner in which she spoke of them, along with her unflappable resolve to rescue them, drives home how deep her loyalty runs.

While SF's Ringleaders command legions of mindless minions and are completely subservient to their master's will, Griffin's T-Dolls have their own unique edge. They have individuality. Their own thoughts and feelings.

Their own sense of purpose.

Maybe it's time I stop relying so much on math-driven logic and learn to trust my heart.

"I think I understand now," I say slowly. "Thank you both. This doesn't work out my problems, but it's a good start."

"We're happy to have been of help." Springfield nods, as kind and gentle as she'd been since fifty-something minutes ago. She looks at the empty plates again. "Have room for dessert?"

I smile and shake my head, pushing my chair back. "Actually, I think I'm gonna head out. I've wasted enough of your time as it is."

"You're leaving without paying?"

I freeze mid-rise. Oh. _Shit_. I am a _fucking _idiot.

Am I really machine enough that I've forgotten how basic society works? Of _course _I'd fucking need money. I'd been so focused on fending off Sangvis Ferri and surviving, it never crossed my mind to scrounge for the coins and paper notes that keep civilization afloat.

"Dammit… I'm so sorry, but I don't have any cash on me." Way to go, jarhead. Take advantage of your hostess' kind service and leave them with nothing. That'll endear you to them.

M249's clueless reaction doesn't help. "…Oh. Umm…" She flounders, pivoting her head around the room in search of inspiration. She finds it in the form of a wall-mounted clock. "Hey, would you look at that! Break time's over." She stands up, patting down her apron. "I'll leave this to you, Miss Manager. There are dishes that need urgent cleaning, y'know?"

She disappears through the kitchen doors, though not without a few parting words directed my way: "It was nice meeting you, James! If Springfield doesn't kick you out, stop by again sometime, okay?"

And just like that, she's gone. It should be noted that she didn't bother taking any of the dirty dishes with her.

I turn to Springfield. "I'll pay you back later," I hastily assure her. "You have my word. I'll come back as soon as I have the money."

To my surprise, she laughs and waves it off. "It's on the house. Consider it repayment for taking good care of the new girl."

"Thank you." I nod gratefully. My hands find their way into my pockets. "For everything. It's been years since I last had food as good as this. Longer since I've seen such friendly staff."

Although she tries to appear modest about it, I can tell that on the inside Springfield is eating up the compliments. She fully deserves them. Anyone who can put up with my antisocial ass does.

She shakes her head, chuckling lightly. "You flatter me, James Rodriguez. Keep it up and I might just give you a permanent discount!"

"You're assuming I'll come back?"

Her smile widening, she tilts her head, the lights hanging above the ceiling causing her green eyes to shine. "Am I wrong to believe that?"

"No." I return the smile. "No, I don't believe you are."

* * *

**(Base 796 Motor Pool)**

"Get down from there, darling! You're going to get hurt!"

"I'll climb down once you've gone through the trash compactor, you animatronic reject!"

The petite Doll rests her small hands on her waist. She scowls, mismatched eyes narrowed. "Don't make me come up there!"

"Try to and I _will _kick you off!"

I watch the back-and-forth exchange a while longer, then look away from the flagpole at Damir. "How long has this been going on?"

"For as long as I can remember, comrade." The older twin sighs wistfully, shaking his head. "For as long as I can remember."

Not exactly what I meant, but whatever.

I met up with the twins shortly after leaving the café. Damir brought me up to speed on what transpired while I was away: M4 will be staying at base until further notice, spearheading the search for the remainder of AR Team. It could still take days or weeks to locate them – possibly even longer – but Psycho's all too eager to lend her a hand. Based on evidence from Prophet's memories, the former SAS-slash-Delta Force operative is at his happiest whenever he's given a mission to sink his teeth into.

He also said Psycho called Helian up to inform her one of the missing Dolls she'd ordered him to locate had already been delivered safely, and how her reaction was, and I quote, 'legendary'.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, Damir decided it was an appropriate time for us men to take our leave. We'd made it to the vehicle hangars when Mk23 ambushed us. Or more accurately, she ambushed Lev. I never saw a man scurry up a flagpole so quickly before, even when I was in basic.

"She's a persistent girl, that one." The logistics officer accompanying us comments.

Ah, right, Kalina's here too. Officially it's to see us off; unofficially, it's to avoid the heap of paperwork her wonderful Commander reportedly left on her desk.

"Why does Lev hate Dolls so much, anyway?" I wonder out loud.

Damir shuffles in place. For the first time since meeting him, the jolly hunter's expression turns forlorn. "It did not use to be this bad. Lev has always mistrusted Dolls, but he was never openly hostile to them. Then when Sangvis Ferri came under new management…" He goes silent, leaving his brother's angry shouts and Mk23's pleading to fill the void. "Comrade James… do you remember when I said that our family is just the two of us?"

"Yeah. I'm guessing that's related?"

He nods somberly. "It is. I am afraid it is not something I enjoy sharing, so please forgive me for refusing to speak further about it."

I can't quite grasp why, but this civilian I only met today suddenly doesn't feel like a stranger anymore. Maybe it's because I can relate on the subject of SF ruining innocent lives. That or I just appreciate him being a forthcoming and chill dude. In retrospect, both reasons are correct.

"Aww, Damir…" Kalina pats him on the shoulder lightly. "It's okay. We all have skeletons in our closets."

_Damn straight, _I think.

She thrusts her index finger skyward and continues, "And it goes without saying that everyone here at Frontline Base 796 appreciates all the hard work you two put in to bring us meat that doesn't come from a can! You guys are our family too, so you're always welcome to swing by and say hi!"

The redhead punctuates her declaration by striking a pose, one foot raised high with her fingers forming the peace sign over her right eye. She wobbles. Then she slips.

"Thank you, Miss Kalina." Damir chuckles as the flustered logistics officer picks herself up off the ground. "You truly are a beacon of light in these dark times."

My smile reaches my ears. It's been forever since I've seen this much positivity over the course of one day, and it's proving to be more contagious than any Ceph pathogen. Loads more entertaining, too. I'm ready to toss in a witty remark when heavy footfalls approaching from behind steal my attention away.

"James!" a voice calls out.

I spin around. "M4?"

AR Team's leader skids to a halt in front of me, panting lightly. She cranes her neck to look me in the face.

"James… are you leaving?"

Aw, shit. I'd been hoping to avoid a scenario like this. I've never been a fan of sentimental goodbyes. "Yeah, I am. My time on base has been…" I trail off, searching for the right term. Something that won't upset her or Kalina. "It's been eye-opening. But I can't stay here, M4. I already told you that."

"Yeah, I know." She links her hands behind her back and looks away, rocking back and forth on her metal heels. "I just wanted to say thank you one last time for all the help you've given me. I won't forget my debt to you."

My big brother instincts kick in. I lightly tousle her hair, something I always used to do with Alice whenever she did something especially cute. M4's reaction to the affectionate gesture mirrors my sister's: puffed-up cheeks, pouty lips, and cheeks reddened from embarrassment.

"Don't make that a concern." I tell her warmly. "Find your sisters and kick SF to the curb. Then we'll call it even."

She takes a deep breath and nods firmly. "Okay. And I will. You can count on it." Then, without an ounce of her usual hesitation, she wraps her arms around my midsection and pulls me into a tight embrace.

"I'm really going to miss you, James," she says softly.

"Oh my goodness…" Kalina whispers. "That is _the _most precious thing ever."

I don't pay her any attention. I'm too busy trying to make sense of what's happening. For crying out loud, when was the last time someone's _hugged_ me?

SECOND says it was thirty-nine years, eleven months, twenty-six days, and three hours ago when Sing Sing and I had a drunken heart-to-heart. Shut the fuck up, you stupid AI. Don't you _dare _ruin this moment.

My arms subconsciously wrap themselves around the Doll's waist, holding her protectively.

"Hey now, don't get all sappy on me. You said I could come visit, didn't you? Someday I'll take you up on that offer." With a tenderness once reserved only for my sister, I separate M4 from my chest and ruffle her hair again. "Take care of yourself, kiddo. And kick some ass for me, rah?"

A single tear slides down her cheek as she smiles. "Rah."

Kalina, sensing that our emotional farewell is over (and perhaps also seeing another opportunity to busy herself with something other than paperwork), takes M4's hand in her own and escorts the Doll to the dormitories. I overhear her cheerfully yammer on about dorm decorations and roomies and other assorted girl shit.

When they're both out of sight, I turn to look at my sole remaining companion.

"Yo, Damir. I hate to keep asking you for favors, but…" I wet my lips, unsure how to go on. Meh. I'll just wing it and hope I sound convincing. "You see… the truth is, I have nowhere to go. ELID took everything away from me, man. Everything. My home, my family… all of it's gone. That's why I'm not afraid to fight those walking corpse puppets and Sangvis Ferri. Nothing left to lose, you know what I mean?"

"_Da_, I think I do." He nods sagely. "But now that you have M4, this has changed, _nyet_? You are rethinking what you desire in life. I can tell you are a dedicated and trustworthy man, comrade James, and for that you have my respect. You are welcome to stay with Lev and I for as long as it takes you to find your path."

Couldn't have said it better myself. No, really, I couldn't have. The older twin's remarkably talented at filling the blanks in with his own conclusions.

"You sure Lev would be okay with that?" I nod over to the flagpole. A small crowd of Griffin personnel have gathered around it by now; a few are yelling at Lev to get down while most of their colleagues just watch on in bafflement. Someone's recording the whole spectacle on their cell phone camera.

Damir laughs heartily. "Probably not. Though if I need to, I will simply pull the older sibling card and tell him to suck it up."

"Thanks a ton, dude." I exhale a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. "I owe you big time for this. We'll go out for drinks sometime. My treat."

"Oh?" A mischievous grin crosses Damir's face. "A Yankee is offering to buy me a drink? You do realize where we are, yes? I hope you have not grown too attached to your cut of the reward. _Comrade_."

Even though I feel the wad of cash in my back pocket screaming in horror at the prospect of drinks with a grown Russian man, I nod anyway.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot: We got paid for M4's safe recovery. Griffin's brass never sponsored a reward for anyone with information on the missing AR Team – my guess is because they're listed as a classified unit – so Psycho improvised. The reward ended up being all the hard cash he could afford to part with, split three ways between the brothers and myself. When all was said and done, I was left with a little less than five hundred dollars which isn't too shabby.

I wonder whom at the café will find the stack of bills I left at my old table, complete with a sizeable tip.

All in all it hasn't been a terrible day. While it still pains me to know things can never go back to the way they were before, life, at this moment, is pretty damn good.

"Darling, please come down!"

"Would you idiots stop staring and get this cat fucker out of here?!"

Unless your name happens to be Lev Paskov.

* * *

**(Paskov Brothers' Village, Late Night)**

_PERSONALITY SUBROUTINE ENGAGED._

_? PERSONALITY FILE NAME:_

_ALCATRAZ_

_? PERSONALITY STATUS: PENDING…_

_SUCCESSFULLY MOVED TO STORAGE_

_ACTIVE HOST TRANSFER IN PROGRESS. PLEASE STAND BY._

_TRANSFER COMPLETE. NEURAL COMPATABILITY AT 100%._

_? PERSONALITY FILE NAME:_

_LAURENCE BARNES/"PROPHET"_

_? PERSONALITY STATUS:_

_ACTIVE_

* * *

**Commander Sykes… It has a nice ring to it, wouldn't you agree?**

**Next chapter will likely be shorter, but there will be a ****_lot _****of exposition to cover (how Psycho ended up working for G&K, information on background events, etc.).**

**PSA: Don't stick disinfectant in your veins.**

**(Update: Someone pointed out a minor blunder I made with G&K's backstory. Went back and touched up on it a little.)**


	9. Old Soldiers

**A remastered Crysis ****_and _****a GFL sequel…? Pinch me, I'm dreaming.**

**My thoughts on ****_Crysis Remastered_****: While I'm practically the conductor of the hype train, I hope CryTek does more with it than polish up the graphics. It would be a bit of a let-down if that ends up happening… but eh, I'll still buy it, especially if they keep the humble "Ascending Frog" glitch. (To anyone who has no idea what I'm talking about: Throw a frog at any hard surface and watch the magic.)**

**Oh, and shout-out to the reviewer who made it two chapters in before claiming this story is "annoying for any **_**Crysis **_**fan" and whining about wanting nothing but action scenes. If only you stuck around a little longer, buddy.**

* * *

**(Road to Base 796)**

Just hear me out for a moment: Contrary to what I suspect most people believe, I'm actually quite fond of Alcatraz. He's always been a good soldier. A little rough around the edges, maybe, and I'll admit I grew concerned when he started communicating with rocks, but overall, I'm proud to call him my successor. I told myself I wouldn't interfere with his life again unless he absolutely needed me.

Hardly the first time I've broken one of my own promises.

You have to understand, I wouldn't have taken control again if the circumstances hadn't changed enough to warrant it. Before, I was content to simply be the observer. Alcatraz was right to call me a ghost haunting the machine. Fact is, that's all I really am at this point: a copy of a dead man's mind, stored inside the world's most advanced combat suit, which fused with and reanimated the dead flesh of an innocent marine who happened to be in the right place at the worst time.

But that's okay. I've made peace with who I am. What I am.

Now that my mission to slay the Alpha Ceph is over with, and Sangvis Ferri did what I couldn't by fixing up Alky, I feel it wouldn't be right for me to cause him more distress by showing myself, especially when he already has enough on his plate to deal with. _Especially _after the unspeakable acts I committed on the poor kid.

Again though, this is _necessary_. He's not the only personality in this body seeking closure. If I'm- if _we're _lucky, I can take care of what needs to be done before sunrise without him ever suspecting a thing. I can place him back in bed and he'll wake up none the wiser.

I curse loudly and almost lose control of the truck when it bowls over another goddamn speed bump. Alcatraz wasn't kidding about this thing – I've felt safer in Ceph lithoships. His new pal Damir must be a natural behind the wheel if he can make this trip on a semi-regular basis. I don't know if he and his brother were startled awake by the noise of the engine wheezing to life; didn't stick around long enough to wait and see. If they were, hopefully the handwritten note I'd taped to the front door will mitigate some of the damage that's sure to follow.

I can't help but wonder what Alcatraz would think of this.

Having assimilated with his mind once, I know that boy's personality inside and out. I know what makes him tick, his motivations and his deepest fears. Yet even I'm not sure how he'll react once morning comes around and he finds himself on the receiving end of questions he'll have no answers for.

If the worst comes to pass and he comes knocking, I'll be ready. Just because I'm masking my continued existence doesn't mean I'm trying to just hide away from it all. Sooner or later he'll figure out the truth, and when he does, words will be exchanged between us. Personally, I'd prefer it all happen later – like I mentioned, he's going through a lot of shit already, and it would pain me to make him more upset.

I ease the truck to the side of the road when I'm about half a klick from base, parking it in a safe spot before venturing out to make the rest of the trip on foot. Thanks to power mode, it doesn't take long; I make out the twin guard towers on either side of the front gate less than a minute later. I slow my pace to a casual walk as I approach.

Then the floodlights turn on and suddenly I'm blind as a bat.

"Stop right there!" an unseen woman commands. "Hands in the air!"

I comply immediately, my eyesight slowly adjusting to the harsh, warm light spilling over my face. Through the glare I can barely make out a pair of T-Dolls, one in each tower, aiming antiquated yet still very serviceable rifles in my direction. SECOND, sensing danger, silhouettes the girls in red outlines and serves up their IDs: Mauser Kar98k and Walther WA2000. The former soon lowers her gun after seeing that I'm apparently unarmed. WA2000, on the other hand, keeps me in her sights, one gloved finger hovering over her weapon's trigger. Both are stunners in their own right, but I didn't come all this way to hit up feminine androids.

"Identify yourself!" Kar98k's voice carries a tone of authority that leaves no room for argument.

"Relax, I'm not here to cause any trouble," I try to assure her. "I'm a friend of Commander Sykes'. My name is Laurence Barnes."

My eyes are adapted enough to the glare to see the white-haired T-Doll scrunch her face up in disbelief. "Laurence Barnes… The Commander has mentioned that name before. Why are you here, Mr. Barnes, and why come at such a late hour?" she demands.

I try a different tactic, hoping to appeal to her sense of comradery. "Isn't it obvious? I came here to catch up with an old war buddy. Is that so wrong?"

My reasoning works, sort of. Her defiant stare softens a bit. "…I suppose that would be understandable. Though why not wait until morning?"

The wine-haired WA2000 cuts me off before I can answer. "Don't be stupid, Kar. Trusting what he says at face value would be a foolish mistake," she warns her fellow sentry. "Ugh. First some weird Doll with no given manufacturer shows up, now a human who claims he knows the Commander? On the same day, in the middle of the night?" She scowls at me. The red eye that isn't covered by her scope burns with suspicion. "What kind of idiots do you take us for?!"

Not a very sociable machine, is she? If Alcatraz were the active host, he'd likely snipe back with a smarmy comment before getting himself sniped in turn. Good thing he's slumbering away in the back of his own brain. I keep a cool head as I give my reply; putting aside how difficult it would be for these girls to actually wound me – let alone kill me – they haven't opened fire yet, meaning diplomacy's still on the table.

"Listen ladies, I apologize for coming here out of the blue but I'm afraid I don't have time to explain everything in detail. I worked with your commander for many years. I need to speak with him. If you still don't believe me, call him and see for yourself."

The German pair exchange glances.

"Wh-What are you looking at _me _for, Kar?!" WA2000 squawks. Her cheeks flush bright pink, though I can't tell if it's more out of embarrassment or frustration. "Just… contact the Commander, I don't care! As for you," she addresses me, "stay right where you are. Don't move unless we give you permission! Got it?!"

"You'll have no trouble from me," I tell her calmly, watching as Kar98k raises a pale hand to her ear. I don't bother hacking the comms, already knowing who's on the other end of the line and what the topic of discussion is.

A couple of minutes pass. I spend the whole waiting period trained in WA2000's crosshairs, occasionally catching muttered snippets from the cranky Doll about _beauty sleep _and _unfair rotations _and _that British muppet should feel honored I put up with him_. Kar98k remains silent, her expression unreadable, though she too watches me closely.

I breathe out an invisible sigh of relief when something finally happens. A loud hiss fills the night air; the hydraulics in the front gate decompress, and it's followed soon afterward by the sounds of whirring gears and creaking metal. I risk lowering my arms as Gate 01 rolls aside.

Bad move.

Both sentries, along with the dozen or so Dolls approaching our direction from beyond the threshold, immediately make it clear I've just messed up. Now I'm back to square one, having two gun barrels pointed at me while the other group huddles protectively around a figure in the center of the cluster.

My heart leaps into my throat when a gruff voice calls out, "Stand down, ladies, stand down! For the love of Christ, I might be old but I'm not fucking defenseless!"

And there he is. The now-Commander Sykes elbows his way through the wall of artificial women, and true to his word, he's packing some serious heat in the form of a M2014 gauss sabot rifle.

Judging by the scowl in his face, he's inclined to use it. Michael never did like having his precious few hours of sleep interrupted. "Now what the hell's going on out here? This better not be another of P7's little pranks, because if it is, then so help me God I'll track that cat nun down and-" The rest of the Commander's threat goes unsaid when his gaze lands on me. I pull together a small, awkward smile. His jaw drops. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me…"

"Hello, Michael." My smile tugs upward at seeing Psycho so utterly gobsmacked. "It's been a few years, hasn't it?"

Michael doesn't say or do anything for several moments. The Dolls standing cautiously behind him take advantage of his inaction to huddle around him again, though he gently brushes the taller ones blocking me from view aside, keeping me squarely in his sights. "Prophet… _Barnes_… is that really you, mate?" he asks quietly. The shock on his face soon melts away; his green eyes flash in the low light, sharpening like knives. There's suspicion in them. "_Is _that really you? What happened to your suit?"

Of course, how could I forget? I hadn't been able to shapeshift when we last saw one another, or rather, I'd been too preoccupied with the Ceph and their wormhole to give it much consideration. He'd expected me to show up wearing the Nanosuit, not a set of clothes I'd borrowed from Damir.

"Remember what Claire said in the skinning lab, about the nanites having the ability to change into anything imaginable?" I watch bemusedly as a whole host of emotions plays over his face. "She was right, Michael. The suit's more symbiotic than ever. I… I can be human again."

"Heh. That's honestly a bit rich coming from you, Barnes." There's a joking tone to his response and the suspicious glare fades, but his posture's still rigid. Time to break out the trump card.

"Maybe." I shrug indifferently. "I'm glad to see you escaped from that harness, by the way. And for the record, it's actually fortunate you were trapped in that VTOL when you were – don't get me wrong, Sykes, you're the toughest son of a bitch I know, but even I don't think you would've survived getting pulled into the vacuum of space."

"…It really is you," he murmurs. To the astonishment of everyone watching, he drops his rifle and strides toward me, then pulls me into a brotherly hug. "It really _is _you!" His voice chokes, caught between laughter and relieved sobs. "Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead! Where the hell have you _been_, boss? You never call, you never write… Hell, not even a postcard!"

I return the embrace in full, feeling warmth and contentment swell up inside just at having my brother back. I catch WA2000 frozen in disbelief out of the corner of my eye. She looks unable or unwilling to believe what's right in front of her, of her Commander tightly hugging a total stranger who waltzed up to their home in the dead of night. She grinds her teeth when I send a faint smirk her way. I'm wondering, though – why all the hostility? Or is she simply protective of Michael?

Thankfully her possessiveness doesn't extend to any of the other T-Dolls. Kar98k and her watching sisters visibly relax at the brotherly display of affection, regarding me with mixed levels of curiosity. One of them, a silver-haired girl in heavy black clothing, pulls out an ancient flip phone and snaps a picture. Her devilish grin doesn't fill me with happy thoughts.

Michael releases me from the hug and gives a wide smile of his own. "Kar said you came all the way here to play catch-up? Bloody poor timing on your part, but hell if I'd ever turn your cybernetic ass away!" He punctuates his declaration with a hearty laugh.

"That is the reason, yes. We have a lot to go over." I nod, then peek over his shoulder at the Doll congregation. "Is there somewhere on this base where we can have some privacy?"

Michael jerks a thumb at the command building. "My office. God, it still feels weird knowing I have an office…"

He turns to leave, motioning for me to come along. The T-Dolls blocking our way step aside for their commander like he's Moses parting the Red Sea. I quietly observe the strange girls as we walk, eyes roving over them, half-listening as Michael speculates out loud whether his new employers would have a collective stroke if they learned he'd just let the last nanosoldier into one of their bases.

Perhaps some of Alcatraz's paranoia is rubbing off, because I'm privately relieved to find none of the handful of Dolls he's familiar with are around to watch us.

* * *

Regardless of the long stretches of time we're often separated, my former teammate possesses certain habits that not even the end of the world could break; one in particular being his staunch refusal to tidy up whatever hole he's living in beyond what he deems acceptable. Which, to the chagrin of all his superiors including myself, was never a hard bar to reach.

Put simply, Michael Sykes' office looks like it houses a herd of buffalo instead of one soldier – all that's missing is the feces and their accompanying stench. Considering that we came in from a pristine white hallway, the transition is jarring.

The room itself isn't all that large, maybe ten by twelve feet, and only about one foot of wall space doesn't have makeshift wallpaper composed of charts, maps, photographs, and old newspaper clippings. Most of them revolve around the Ceph resurgence in late 2047 and the collapse of CELL Corporation in early 2048. One article in particular, proudly framed and displayed above a metal desk strewn with overturned paper coffee cups and unfinished forms, is headlined with the following: "_CryNet Board of Directors Found Dead in Apparent Mass Homicide_".

The corners of my lips pull upward at the sight of it. Psycho, you insane son of a bitch.

We quickly discover we're not alone in here. A blonde-haired girl wearing a maid outfit puts her current task of sweeping the garbage littering the floor into a dustpan on hold, standing up straighter as Michael and I enter.

"Master Sykes, welcome." She does a polite curtesy, one hand still holding her broom. Her voice, laced with a thick German accent, is calm and professional. "I anticipated you would need your office after being informed we had a special guest and decided to do a little tidying up before your return. I apologize for my inability to finish."

For the first time in memory, Michael looks honestly touched. "Aw, you didn't have to do that, love."

"_Nein_, but it needed to be done soon anyway. Allow me to be blunt, Master: You work in a pigpen."

The commander brushes her slightly annoyed assessment off with a hearty chuckle. "What can I say? I'm not really the organized type. Everyone I've served with knows that." He shrugs, then motions my way. "And now that the subject is relevant… our 'special guest' turned out to be none other than my old CO, Major Laurence Barnes. Remember when I told you about him last month?" He addresses me next before she can answer. "Barnes, I'd like you to meet G36. She's my secretary, as well as one of our most experienced fighters."

G36's icy blue eyes meet mine. They've been narrowed ever since we entered; put together with her serious frown, she cuts quite the intimidating figure despite the maid getup. Maybe she's bothered by us tracking more dirt into the room. Maybe she knows she'll have to clean the hallway outside next.

Whatever grievances she might have, she hides them expertly. Another curtesy is directed at me.

"_Guten Abend, _Herr Barnes. Master has shared a number of stories regarding the days you fought alongside one another." She nods approvingly, though her stony expression doesn't budge. "If what he claims is true, it was you who slayed the Alpha Ceph and triggered the Bloom. For saving the human race, you have my sincerest gratitude."

The Bloom… Kalina mentioned that term earlier. I nod back at G36, then turn to Michael.

He reads the puzzlement on my face easily. "When the wormhole collapsed and the Ceph warship exploded, it created one hell of a light show," he immediately explains. "Doubt there was a single bloke on Earth who didn't feel the shockwave, either. Someone on social media compared the whole spectacle to a flower suddenly going into bloom. The name sort of stuck."

"I see."

Truth be told, I never gave much thought to how the planet's population would react to my – _our_ – harrowing exploits, nor did I care back then if I survived to see the consequences. When I think about it now, however, I realize that if I too were an everyday civilian, I also would've been scared shitless if I happened to look up at the sky one night and see an eldritch Cthulhu-like war machine emerging into low orbit. Scary how detached you come to feel from other humans when you technically aren't one anymore. Took me a long time to remember who I am.

Perhaps that's why – only after all was said and done – I finally felt the guilt begin to creep in.

"Since any further cleaning will likely have to wait…" G36 steers the conversation back toward the present. "How about I prepare some tea instead? If Master would allow it, of course."

I hate to be the one to stereotype, but I'm pretty sure I catch Michael's eyes twinkling at the offer. "Tea would be perfect, darling. Go make it happen. And put a few extra drops of lemon in mine!"

"As you wish, Master." G36's lips twitch into a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile. She exits the room with one last bow, carrying the broom and dustpan with her.

Michael moves around his trash heap of a desk and falls into his cushioned chair, letting out a content sigh. I seat myself on an adjacent folding chair, and for the next thirty awkward seconds, neither of us say a word, both waiting for the other to make a move. As his former CO, I decide to take the plunge first.

"You look good for a man in his seventies," I take note.

He cracks a grin. "Don't I though? My suit might've been ripped off before the symbiosis was complete, but I still came away with a few nice perks. I age about half as fast as a regular person does, for instance."

Huh. Depending on the date the skinning took place, I guess that helps explain why he more or less looks the same now as he did at Lingshan. Come to think of it, he showed zero signs of breaking or slowing all throughout New York when he was in his fifties. Good for him, I say.

"And that's not all. I've also got enhanced reflexes and reaction time. Perfect night vision, too." His already wolfish grin widens. "Damn fucking useful when you're infiltrating, say, a corporate-owned safe house in the middle of the night."

"I take it you had something to do with that, then?" I point to the framed newspaper article detailing the massacre of high-value CELL personnel.

"More like everything. What?" He gets defensive when I raise an eyebrow. "You know damn well better than anyone what those bastards did to me, Barnes! Just because CELL was left powerless after their pet generator alien got loose didn't mean I was going to leave the job unfinished. Doubt any of their board of directors would've survived the angry masses clamoring for revenge anyhow." He shrugs. "Hell, I practically showed them mercy."

Left unsaid is that Michael has a very twisted definition of 'mercy'. I ask anyway. "Did you make it quick?"

"What do you think?"

"Honestly? I think they were begging for death by the time you were done with them."

"Wouldn't be a bad assumption."

For those curious individuals wondering why he got the callsign 'Psycho', there's your answer. Michael's always been the kind of guy to take sensitive humanitarian matters into his own hands if he feels an injustice has been committed – it's a characteristic I sometimes have trouble working around, but I can never begrudge the results. He has his own ideas of justice and won't let something as insignificant as bureaucratic red tape get in the way.

A troubled feeling suddenly overtakes me. I know from our years of service together that Michael Sykes is a transparent, 'what you see is what you get' soldier. And if there's one critical thing Lingshan taught me about him, it's that he hates secrets; he never quite forgave me for keeping the true nature of our mission under wraps. For all his occasional reckless bravado, even he prefers to run ops with all available intel. Which begs the question…

"Michael… why didn't you tell me a third World War was raging right outside the Nanodome? How come you never said anything about Dolls? Or this ELID disease?"

Why did I have to find out about all that only after the Ceph invasion was thwarted, when I scavenged a working radio? When I thought my twisted second life's work was finally complete? The war, ELID, T-Dolls… I didn't find a single reference to any of them back in New York. Not one.

Michael's been thrown for a loop. It's clear he hadn't anticipated such a question, nor does he seem to know how to answer it. He's given a temporary out, however, when G36 politely knocks on the door before entering with a tea set expertly balanced on one hand.

"Your tea, Master Sykes, Mr. Barnes. Will there be anything else?" The blonde Doll sets the tray, containing a teapot and two steaming cups, on the desk, then folds her hands in front of her frilly skirt. Her eyes, still squinted as though she's perpetually agitated, lock themselves onto her Commander's.

Michael grabs one of the cups and immediately downs half its contents. Whatever's in that tea, it smells good. "Thank you, darling, and no thank you. You're free to turn in for the night; you've worked hard today. As always." He offers her an easy smile. "Besides, G36C must be missing her big sister, yeah?"

"Perhaps, though it's likely she already fell asleep before curfew," G36 muses with a sigh. She bows gracefully. "I will take my leave now. Have a pleasant night, Master. Mr. Barnes, it was an honor making your acquaintance."

"Likewise," I reply while Sykes simply nods. Once she's gone, I help myself to some tea before turning my full attention back to my squadmate. I have to hand it to G36 – she makes a damn fine pot. The warmth of the beverage settling in my stomach (_ALCATRAZ's stomach_, a regretful part of me screams) dispels a bit of the tension in me. "So. World War III. ELID. How come I never heard of these events until later? Spit it out."

"Would it have changed anything?" Michael fires back.

Now I'm the one who's been caught by surprise. What's he getting at here?

"Of course it would've!"

"See, I have trouble believing that." He pauses to finish his cup. As he refills it, he goes on, "We both know you'd changed when we reunited in Mexico. It was always Alpha Ceph this, Alpha Ceph that. Nothing else fucking mattered to you, did it? Even after the Resistance risked their necks to get you out of CELL's clutches, even after we lost Dane and Bandit in the process, your priorities never changed." He frowns at the cup, swirling the dark liquid around. His mind is absorbed in the ugly days of the past. I don't dare interrupt. "And yeah, I know – you were right in the end. No need to rub it in. But ask yourself this: Would you have acted any differently if you'd known what was happening in the outside world?"

I swallow bile. Michael's lured me into a corner. What would I have done back then? What _could _I have done? The Ceph's Manhattan pathogen, although deadly enough to cause an extinction-level event, was only in effect for about a week before Alcatraz thwarted the scheme, and it was contained to New York City. Whether by coincidence or design, I still don't know. ELID, on the other hand, had already been around for twelve years by the time I was freed from CELL's containment. And if what M4A1 said was true, it hit way, _way_ faster than its predecessor. Could I have done something to prevent its spread?

The technical answer is yes, possibly, if I'd been at the right place at the right time. But I wasn't. One of our old team, Fire Dragon, had broken off to scout the Beilan Island lithostructure by himself while the rest of us hit Wuhan. He reported back that he'd failed to find the Alpha Ceph there. I never gave the place a second thought afterward.

How goddamn _stupid _of me to ignore the tension radiating from him. I'd picked up on it, of course, but back then I wasn't in the mood to play hearts and minds. Only the Alpha mattered. Nothing else.

"No," I finally admit. "I wouldn't have. But now I wish I could've."

A fresh wave of guilt crashes into me when Michael doesn't look surprised at all by my answer. Instead he just savors another sip of his cup. "I know you do," he says to reassure me. "Don't beat yourself up too much over it, Barnes. We had a damn huge to-do list and we couldn't be everywhere at once. We were the best ones to handle all the crises, no doubt about it. Though honestly – and I hate to say this – I don't think even we could've saved the world from sliding down the shitter."

"That's oddly pessimistic coming from you."

"Yeah, well… a lot has changed." Michael echoes the words he'd said to me shortly after we infiltrated the Liberty Dome. "Maybe we could've stopped the release of ELID if we hadn't been ambushed in Siberia, or maybe not. Either way, by 2047 it was too late to solve that problem."

I lean back in my chair and breathe a quiet sigh. If we'd evaded capture just a little longer… if I hadn't been so blind to reality… then perhaps we wouldn't have 'snot zombies,' as Alky's taken to calling them, running around in the present day. Michael claims we couldn't have predicted everything that would happen. He's absolutely right, but there's still a bad taste in my mouth.

I try to wash it down with more tea. It helps, sort of.

"We all made a lot of human mistakes back then," I muse aloud before broaching the next subject. "What about World War III? What's the full story behind it?"

"Oh my god…" Michael sighs, reclines in his chair and runs a hand down his face. "If there's one silver lining about sleeping away ten years of your life in a containment pod, it's that you weren't there to see it begin. You thought the situation in Liberty Dome was cockeyed? Outside it was worse. CELL tried to keep order after ELID spread out of control – calls for unity; global military policing; new rules and guidelines to keep people in check; broadcasts assuring the public they had everything under control. Typical propaganda. It even worked for a time, surprisingly."

"Except things didn't _stay_ under control." And why am I not shocked that CELL played an indirect hand in ushering in the third World War…

"Obviously fucking not. Fast forward to 2045, ten years after the Beilan Island incident. Livable space had shrunk to an all-time low. Food was scarcer than ever. Several remaining countries declared martial law as riots got more and more violent. Finally, CELL just couldn't keep the lid from blowing any longer."

He takes a break from his story to fill his teacup a third time. His expression is a complicated mixture of pain and acceptance; SECOND points out, rather needlessly, that his stress levels are elevated. I nurse my own drink and wait for him to continue.

"It was a fucking mess, boss," he grumbles bitterly. "Every nation on earth was trying to kill the other, take their land and resources. North America invaded South America. The New Soviet Union was in its infancy when the Chinese apparently decided Siberia was suddenly prime real estate. The Middle East is an irradiated wasteland, and not just because of ELID. Only Africa emerged from the war mostly unscathed, and that's only because the European Union nations were too busy tearing each other's throats out to pay them much attention at the time. The survivors raced to colonize it after the ashes settled."

...Damn.

"Sounds to me like nobody won that war."

Michael sighs – a deep, heavy sound. "In a way, yeah. On the other hand, with CryNet scrambling to restore some type of order, a few disgruntled folks saw an opportunity in disguise. Think about it: CELL finally lost control of their global regime, at least temporarily. It was the perfect time to hit them where it hurt." He looks directly at me, weathered lips curling into a smug smirk. I already know what he's going to say next. "And I knew just the right person to make that dream into reality, even if it took two bloody long years to track him down."

More missing pieces of the puzzle are fitting into place. Besides the barbaric procedures he suffered through at St. Bartholomew's – along with whatever he had going on with Dr. Fontanelli – I still have the bare minimum of information about my old friend's time in the resistance group. He never spoke much about it, and I wasn't interested in prying.

"I always suspected you hadn't rescued me out of the kindness of your heart." My reply is lighthearted, almost teasing in nature. It feels… good. It feels _human_. If the way Michael's smirk grows is any indication, he's picked up on it.

"Believe me when I say this, boss – war or no war, I didn't forget about you. Would've freed you a whole lot sooner if I had my Nanosuit."

"You still pulled it off, and that's what matters most." I assure him. "Back to the war, though. When and how did it conclude?"

His answer is instantaneous. "2052, and only because mounting casualties and ELID took their combined toll on the major nations' armed forces. Nowadays it's private contractors like Griffin that fill in the cracks…" He tilts his head, eyeing me inquisitively all of a sudden. His smile fades. "I get you weren't around for the start of the war, but you should know how it ended. Why do you need me to explain it? Where have you _been _all these years, anyway?"

A deep breath fills my lungs. I've privately been dreading this moment, truth be told. We're close as brothers but I still find myself apprehensive… There's no telling how Sykes will respond to what I have to say.

I stall for time by pouring more tea as I think of how to begin. There's not much left in the pot.

"I told you I got spaced, right?" I venture carefully. When he nods in the affirmative, I continue, "Take one guess where I crash-landed after blowing up that abomination."

"Vegas?"

A brief, hollow laugh escapes me. "Heh, I wish. I hit just off the coast of Lingshan."

"That would've been my second guess," Michael insists. Voice analysis via SECOND confirms he's telling the truth, not that it really matters. He sighs, rubs his forehead and grumbles, "Those cursed islands… You really went full circle, didn't you, boss?"

"I suppose I did." I polish off the last of my tea, gently setting the cup on the tray. "That's not the strangest part, though. I remember wearing the suit when I blacked out on impact. When I woke up, it… well. See for yourself."

Mimicking the way Alcatraz showed off his inhuman side to M4, I raise my arm and envelop the length of it in a mesh of titanium and multi-million-dollar CryFibril nano-weave. Unlike M4, however, Michael's reaction to the partial shift is far more subdued; he lifts a brow, maybe sits up a little straighter, but that's about it.

"So that's what full symbiosis looks like," he mutters to himself, eyeing the blackened limb up and down.

"It works as an effective disguise, too, as you've just seen. I can look like a normal person again." Except for the eyes… which I'm only now realizing Michael still hasn't commented on yet. I wonder why? It's impossible for him not to have noticed them by now. I revert the arm to normal and resume, "Anyway, with the Ceph dealt with, I decided it was finally time to retire. Built myself a shack on the waterfront and figured I'd take it easy for a few years. Take some time to reflect on what I did, make peace with my mistakes."

And when I finally came to terms with the sins I'd committed – I'd find a way to bring Alcatraz back. I took his body because I needed it to fight the Ceph. With them gone, what reasons did I have left to keep holding onto it? What was left out there for me?

My plan was originally to catch a flight back to the U.S., dig up my list of old contacts and see which ones with Nanosuit expertise were still kicking, and work my way up from there. Nice and easy, right?

The discovery that another, separate war was raging outside Lingshan changed that plan.

"One of the first things I got was a radio set tuned to long-distance frequencies. That's how I initially found out about ELID and World War III… I spent a lot of nights lying awake listening to the reports." Just as many were spent analyzing the human DNA in my body and cross-referencing it with the medical data of Major Laurence Barnes. Never a match, no matter how much I tried to alter it.

There's a stinging sensation in my eyes. "Those revelations… they crushed me, Sykes."

"Boss, I-"

A spark of rage flares somewhere deep in my chest. I abruptly pound my fist on the desk, G36's tea set rattling at the impact. "You _know _what I sacrificed to stop the Ceph, dammit!" I cut Michael off. "Do you have _any _idea how much it killed me to learn they still got the last laugh in? Do you?!"

"No they _fucking_ didn't!" he raises his voice to match mine. He meets my devastated gaze with a firm, composed one. "They didn't," he repeats, softer this time. "Their goal was to wipe us all out. The fact that we're having this conversation almost fifteen years after the Alpha died means that they ultimately didn't succeed. Sure, things aren't great currently. I'll admit that. Humanity had to adapt to a new normal."

He stops to down his remaining tea, sets the cup next to mine, then steeples his fingers together. In that moment, he looks as serious as he did when he first declared he wanted to end CELL's tyranny.

"But we _survived_. Maybe not thriving, but we're managing. And we're not struggling alone – we made our own help in A-Dolls. Dedicated combat Dolls got out of the prototype phase a year after the Bloom… hmph. Suppose New York would've been a shitty testing site…"

A contemplative expression overtakes his features, though he quickly shakes it off. "Look, the point I'm making is that those alien squid bastards used every nasty trick in their arsenal to kill us and failed. Even if it's a murky one, at least humans earned the right to shape their own future. The best we can do now is face it with our heads held high."

"Yeah…" My shoulders slacken. "Yeah, you're right."

Spitting in the Ceph's faces by living life to the fullest... It sounds like wishful thinking; a human concept. I can accept that.

For some reason I'm reminded of Damir. Alcatraz's new friend might come to conclusions a tad too hastily in my opinion, but for a guy who's aware he's living through an apocalypse, he's remarkedly chipper about it. He and his brother aren't suffering from the Ceph or their legacy.

Heck, Alky himself is coming to adjust to this new world despite the utter hell that followed his revival. He made a few new friends in the Paskovs and Griffin. He has a temporary yet stable place to stay. And while I'm nearly certain he'd throttle me for saying this, he's even beginning to see M4 as a replacement figure for his sister.

He's making himself a life, one step at a time.

Though it may not have happened if I… if I…

"Boss?" Michael's tone is unusually hesitant. "You alright?"

He needs to know. He deserves to hear every detail. Who else do I have left to turn to? Michael Sykes is the sole person who I implicitly trust, as well as the only man who might be able to offer me an explanation.

"I was captured again."

His green eyes balloon into saucers. His next word are pretty much what I'd expected:

"Fucking _pardon me_?"

"CELL took me in again, Michael. Or I believe it was a group formerly affiliated with CELL." I close my eyes and inhale another deep breath, struggling to bring the appropriate details to the forefront of my mind. It frustrates me deeply how fuzzy they are. Whenever I try to press deeper, all I get is a headache and a sound like TV static.

"I was still on Lingshan. 2051, I think the year was. I know its cliché but it happened so fast… One minute I'm strolling along the beach watching the gulls overhead, and the next my back is on the sand and I can't move a muscle. My ears were ringing. It felt like I was having a goddamn seizure."

Sykes rests his hands against his chin, a grim expression betraying his thoughts. "You reckon it might've been an EMP attack?" he asks seriously.

"It had to be. I know for a fact it was done deliberately – I was on a deserted stretch of coast at the time. Even if a malfunctioning electrical tower had been nearby, some faulty wiring couldn't have caused _that _amount of damage so fast. And then there was- I think I saw…"

A sudden jab of pain has me rubbing my thumb and index finger against my temples. Snippets of memories belonging to myself and Alcatraz flit through my mind; although they come and go before I can pick apart their significance, they each share one common factor: CELL.

Michael's concerned voice sounds like mud in my ears. "Barnes? Barnes! You okay, boss? Answer me, Laurence!"

"There was… Someone else was there with me, Michael."

That day, through the fog in my eyes, I saw a shimmer; the slightest distortion in the humid air. I thought maybe I had heatstroke – it _was _close to a hundred degrees that day – except I shouldn't be able to get heatstroke anymore.

"I know I saw something… a figure? I'm not sure…" I attempt to delve deeper, claw away at the metaphorical dirt burying the truth from me, but each layer I dig through accelerates the pressure building in my head until I'm convinced it might explode. "No, someone was definitely there… I'm certain of it."

"Who was it? Tell me what they looked like!" Michael presses.

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

What I _do _know, however, is that visible heat waves can't form a human-shaped silhouette.

A Nanosuit's cloak, on the other hand…

"Alright, so that's a dead end." Michael rises from his chair, then paces the length of his office, stopping to examine a particular newspaper clipping. I trace his eyes to the headline and zoom in: Something about a massive economic upheaval following CELL's dismantlement, dated January 2048.

"Any ideas on what might've happened?" I ask. A shadow crosses the Commander's face.

"Not many I'm afraid, although I can almost guarantee one thing: You're right to think the perpetrator had ties to CELL. My best guess? Whoever attacked you was employed by one of their business partners. Someone with mutual goals."

Considering what I remember afterward, the place where Alcatraz and I awoke, I take a calculated shot in the dark. "Sangvis Ferri?"

"Possibly. Likely, I'd even say." He shrugs and turns away from the yellowed paper. "SF dabbled in nanotech for a couple of years before CELL decided the risk of classified info leakage was too great. They redirected the company's focus toward Tactical Doll manufacturing."

_"__What does Sangvis Ferri want with me?"_

_"__To study your biology."_

Scarecrow's explanation was as vague as a woman's romantic hints but I'm beginning to glean a couple of valuable clues. This body is especially unique, and it's apparently a big enough game changer that even the human staff at Sangvis wanted-

"Commander? Are you in there?" a faint inquiry accompanied by several soft knocks on the door cuts off my line of thinking.

"One moment, boss." Michael sidles up to the door and opens it. He looks surprised by the T-Doll on the other side. "Magal? What brings you here at this hour, sweetheart?"

"I woke up when I heard shouting earlier. I'd assumed there was danger and came to lend you my assistance… I'm glad to see I was wrong." The girl replies in a voice barely above a whisper. She stows the law enforcement carbine she's carrying and breathes an invisible sigh of relief.

While she would already pass as an oddity among humans, her appearance seems overly standout even by Doll standards. The most extravagant thing about her is the incredibly long mane of glossy green hair that nearly touches the floor. Her wardrobe consists of a black tac jacket worn over a leotard and miniskirt (_Alky raised a good point about those things_); the latter two garments are made out of a dark, plastic-like material. A combat knife is sheathed on the one stockinged thigh that ends with a boot.

Citrus eyes flicker to meet mine. "Mr. Barnes, could I ask you to please not upset my Commander? Some of us are trying to sleep."

"You know who I am?" I ask in bewilderment.

She wasn't part of the mob at the front gate earlier, was she? No, I'm sure I'd have noticed her. The hair alone would've given her away like a beacon.

The Doll tilts her head slightly, expression unreadable. "Not personally. I overheard the commotion surrounding your arrival from my dorm room." She exhales another inaudible sigh. "I apologize on WA2000's behalf. She is… not good at expressing herself in a friendly manner."

"Think nothing of it. I'm used to being shouted at." Comes with a lifetime in the Army and leading squads of temperamental soldiers around. What really interests me is, how did she manage to eavesdrop from so far away?

And right on cue, Sykes sees fit to fill me in.

"Magal was programmed to have hypersensitive hearing. Like really, _really _sensitive." He gives his subordinate a pat on the shoulder, though it garners no reaction beyond a curious stare. "See these headphones she's wearing? Her system would probably crash from a sensory overload if she didn't have them."

"Sometimes I think Miss Persica hates me."

"Aw, come on, darling. You know that's not true."

"Oh yeah? You're not the one forced to suffer through Mk23's fantasies about Lev night after night when she thinks no one's-"

"Hey, um, Magal, since you're here and we've clearly established that I'm not in any danger, how's about you take G36's tea set back to the kitchens, yeah?" My chair scrapes sideways as Michael barrels past at a speed that belies his age; he grabs the tray and its contents and dumps them into the surprised girl's arms. "You can go back to sleep once that's done. Run along now, chop chop!"

She narrows her eyes at him. "I know what you're doing, Commander. You just don't want to admit I'm right." She makes to leave, though she pauses at the foot of the doorway to address me.

"Your heart rhythm is abnormal, Mr. Barnes. I'd get that checked out if I were you." Satisfied that she'd left me feeling plenty confused and disturbed, Magal heads out.

Michael shuts the door as soon as she's beyond the threshold. "Bloody hell," he mutters as he returns to the comfort of his seat. Then he sees my perplexed expression. "Magal is… ah, how do I put this? She's a nice girl, very sweet when you get to know her, but the hearing thing causes her to view the world a mite bit differently than us."

I recall a few of the quirkier Dolls both Alcatraz and myself were introduced to. "Sounds like you have quite the collection of characters on this base," I note with a hint of humor.

"You don't know the fucking half of it, mate."

Something else Magal said comes to mind. "Who's this Persica person?"

"Bigshot in the Doll industry. Mad genius, apparently behind a lot of IOP's design choices." He waves off any further specifics. "What were we talking about earlier? Right, you getting captured. So tell me…" Practically radiating curiosity, Michael leans across his desk, hovering uncomfortably close to my personal bubble. "If you got caught again… then how in the name of Jesus H. tapdancing Christ are you here now?"

This is it – the moment of truth. No sense chickening out now that I've come this far. I'm not much of a praying man, but inside I silently ask whatever deities are watching that my old squadmate won't have a heart attack, or faint, or chew me out or any number of other things that strange green-haired T-Doll might detect.

Now then, how to begin…

"Do my eyes remind you of anyone you've met recently, Michael?"

The commander's own eyes flash. "Don't change the fucking-"

"I'm not changing the subject. This is relevant, I promise," I insist.

"Fine, whatever." The heat in his voice dissipates somewhat and he reclines away from me, back to his side of the desk. "I wasn't sure how to bring it up before, but yeah; a few kids visited earlier today to, uh, deliver some important hardware." Despite the serious atmosphere, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking.

Sykes's expression turns quizzical. "One of them had eyes that perfectly match yours. Hold on. That wasn't…?"

"No, it wasn't me in disguise." At least not in any traditional way. I close my eyes again and take a long, slow breath. "Michael… you once asked me whose face I wore under that helmet. There's your answer."

Silence pervades the cramped office for several moments. Michael averts his gaze. I can almost picture what's happening in his head: a mental archeological dig to unearth long forgotten memories; each one uncovered is carefully brushed off, examined, and sorted to its relevant pile. A full minute ticks by and he's still no closer to finding the right one.

But find it he does, and his loud groan conveys his disappointment.

"Fucking hell, Barnes! I know you've always sucked at the whole 'humanity' thing but I never thought you'd stoop _that _low!"

"What are you talking about?" I ask in honest puzzlement.

"Quit playing dumb!" he snaps, jabbing an accusatory finger toward me. Seems like I've accidentally pissed him off yet again… "It was bad enough that you hijacked Alcatraz's body; now you have the bloody nerve to walk around in his skin pretending to _be_ him?!"

"What? No! And keep it down!" I hiss back. The absolute last thing I need is for Magal to be listening in. "I just told you it wasn't me. That boy you saw was the real Alcatraz."

"Impossible. He's dead."

"He was never truly dead, Sykes. The suit created a backup of his personality just like it it did with mine. It was unstable, however, so it ended up being moved to indefinite storage."

Michael wasn't aware at first about my original death in the New York incursion. That changed not long after our world tour to hunt the Alpha Ceph began. He quickly picked up on the fact that unlike the rest of our team, I never ate, slept, or did anything as simple as remove the N2's faceplate for some fresh air. He'd joked that I basically became the suit.

He refused to speak to me for a week after I spilled the ugly truth.

It's a testament to how fucked up I'd gotten during that time period that it never crossed my mind to tell him SECOND was still holding onto the damaged personality file. That doesn't mean I didn't occasionally think about it. It confused me – the data was corrupted, so why did the AI insist on holding onto what was basically garbage data? Why not just delete it and put all the possible risks that stemmed from keeping it behind me?

Perhaps – in the deepest recesses of my psyche that still retained a shred of humanity – I was the one subconsciously urging it not to. That if the worst came to pass and Prophet fell in battle, Alcatraz could've possibly-

No.

What am I trying to convince myself into believing? That I see him as nothing more than a tool? That I don't _care _about him? While I'll say right now he wouldn't have been my first choice for a replacement, beneath the mask of drunken antics and snarky humor lies a well-trained FORECON marine. Sharing in his memories also added in another, more personal touch. To this day I wish I could've checked in on his sister at least once more.

His last words before surrendering complete control were to remember him. Even when I was at my most inhuman, for better or worse, no matter how subtly I'd done it, I'd honored that request.

"Laurence." Michael's tone is eerily composed. "Explain what's going on. _Now_."

* * *

**(One Hour Later)**

I start from the very beginning, from the moment I sensed the cryo-pod decompressing all the way to earlier this afternoon, leaving nothing out.

_Almost _nothing, I should correct myself. For the sake of Alcatraz's integrity, I mention neither the rock nor how badly he broke down after learning how many years had passed since he last saw the world through something other than our symbiotic link. I delve into the details surrounding his escape from the Sangvis facility, his scuffles against the Ringleaders, and his days of wandering through the forest.

Michael stops me at a handful of intervals to ask questions or seek clarification, but otherwise hangs onto every word. He scowls when I reveal SF's peculiar interest in me-slash-us. He listens intently as I confess my inner turmoil over whether I should've taken temporary control again after Alky was knocked out in the elevator shaft. He grins when I explain the circumstances behind Scarecrow's defeat and rolls his eyes at how the marine resorted to headbutting M4A1 in a fleeting moment of panic. All in all, he takes the series of events far better than I thought he would.

"So Alcatraz was the bogeyman wiping out all those Sangvis by the outskirts? Damn, I would've paid him extra if I knew that sooner," is the first thing he says once I've finished. "And what about you? Does he know you're still around?"

My shoulders rise and fall in a halfhearted shrug. "Hard to say. I think he suspects _something_…" I recollect on the way we 'conversed' through the Ceph carapace at the farm. It's difficult to discern how much of it can be chalked up to his fragile mental state versus any real semblance of communication. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if he knows and he's just choosing to ignore it."

"Have you tried reaching out to him?"

"And what would that achieve?" I feel my mood deflate. "He's not exactly fond of me, Michael. I'll intervene if I have to, but until then I'm content to sit back and let him do as he pleases."

"Hmph." Michael's obviously not thrilled although he nods in begrudging acceptance. "It's your call, boss. Personally I don't think it's healthy for the both of you to keep dancing around the issue, though what do I know? I'm not a bloody psychologist." His bald head suddenly snaps higher. "Wait a minute. You can see what Alcatraz sees, right? Is he watching us right now?"

"He isn't. I made sure he was asleep before taking control."

"Good. That would've been pretty fucking awkward." We share a brief chuckle. "In all seriousness, though, I'm glad he's getting better," he says with utmost sincerity. "That kid's been through just as much hell as we have, maybe more. What are his plans for the future?"

"He's still debating that. For now he's lodging with the Paskovs." Whatever he decides to do, I'll be there to watch over his self-deprecating ass and keep it safe. Hmm… "Michael, can I ask a favor of you?"

"As long as it doesn't involve hooking you up with one of my girls, I'm all ears."

Good old Psycho.

"Nothing so carnal. Listen… I'm going to give him back control after I return to the village. Depending on how Alcatraz chooses to live his life from then on, there's a very real possibility this might be the last time we see each other."

He never considered that. The surprise on his face confirms it. Being the strong-willed soldier he is, however, he manages to force down whatever personal grievances he may have and looks me dead in the eyes.

"Go on."

"I'd like you to keep an eye on Alcatraz while he's in the area." I state simply. "He hides it well, but he's still hurting on the inside. He needs a safety net; if something goes wrong, he'll need a place to fall back to with people who care about him." He came perilously close to losing his grip on sanity just twenty-four hours ago, and there was so little I could do for him. But there are plenty of folks around now who can help – Michael, Damir, Lev, M4… hell, even the pair of Dolls from the restaurant. "I'm not asking you to recruit him. Just… make sure he stays safe, okay?"

I lose track of how much time passes as Michael stares at me. The look on his face is cautious, searching. Why, though? Did I say something wrong?

Finally he speaks up. "So what you're saying is, you want me to be there for him in case he cracks under pressure."

"That's exactly what I'm asking, yes."

Michael grins. "Damn, boss. I guess you really _are _human after all." He relaxes further into his seat. "Sure, I'll look after him for you, though not just because you asked me to. If that batshit tale of yours is even half true, SF might soon come sniffing around. Let me just leave a message for Helian-"

"NO!" My hand slams over the desktop phone before his can reach it. I suddenly don't care who or what might overhear us. "You can't tell _anyone _what Alcatraz really is," I stress when I meet his stunned gaze. "What will your new 'superiors' do if they find out? Huh?! Never mind how I'm still astonished you'd even _consider _joining a PMC after what you went through, if Griffin is anything – _anything _like CELL, they'll ruin him!"

"G&K is _nothing _like CELL," Michael fires back instantly, withdrawing his hand. Then he darkly adds, "Trust me, I would've done something about them a long time ago if they were. Have I told you anything about my life after cutting the heads off of those corporate CryNet snakes?"

I shake my head. The phone is kept out of his grasp. He grunts in disapproval but continues anyway. "Spent most of it doing global humanitarian work of the mercenary kind after World War III; I arrived in the NSU about eight months ago. Not even five minutes after getting off the plane at Moscow, I met Berezovich Kryuger – he's the co-founder, quick history lesson of the day – I met him in line at an airport burger joint. We struck up a conversation. Came to like him after he said airplane food is almost as big a scam as the Work Away Debt program."

"Seems like he has an interesting personality." Knowing full well how much issue Sergeant Michael Sykes normally has with authority figures, combined with his hatred of private militaries, it speaks a ton about what kind of man this Kryuger is if he could convince my hotheaded ex-teammate to work under him.

"Yep, he sure does. Kryuger was an officer in the war before transferring to the Ministry of Internal Affairs; he said that witnessing so many deaths and atrocities is what gave him the idea to start up a PMC. I'll spare you the nitty-gritty details but remember this, Barnes: I wouldn't have chosen to follow him if I didn't think he had his head on straight."

There's irony in that statement when you consider how he loyally stuck by me during the year and a half we spent tracking down an alien serpent.

"I'll take your word for it." And if his current situation is anything to go by, it didn't appear to be a bad deal. My best friend is surrounded by ladies in a secure installation. What more could a man want?

Michael stands up and stretches. "Alrighty then. Here's how it'll go: Since you and Alcatraz technically haven't done anything wrong, I won't tip off the brass. I already gave the order to beef up perimeter security and send more frequent patrols earlier today after Kalina mentioned increased Sangvis activity, so that's that covered. I'm sure I can just pull an excuse out of my arse if the higher-ups ask questions. Heh. They're under the impression I'm some sort of tactical genius, so they'll trust my instincts."

"Thank you, Michael. I know I'm asking for a lot here. I'm not trying to compromise your job, believe me." I tell him earnestly, rising to my own feet.

"Wouldn't have accepted if I wasn't confident I could handle it, mate."

We close the distance and embrace for what might be the last time.

"You know it's going to be hard to look at Alcatraz's eyes and not see you in there," he murmurs into my shoulder.

"It's for the best. He deserves to live out the rest of his life," I try to explain again. He grumbles something into my shirt. "Sorry, what?"

"…So do you, you bloke."

Our moment ends when the phone abruptly rings and snaps me from my shocked stupor. Michael swears under his breath and for a second looks tempted to ignore it, although duty wins out in the end. That still doesn't stop him from sounding annoyed with whatever asshole interrupted us.

"Commander's office, Sykes speaking… Kalina? Shouldn't you be- Whoa, slow down, what are you- _What_? Echelon 10? The goddamn Suicide Squad?! That's impossible; I sent them into the most heavily infested territory I could- Yes. Yes, and bring out the yarn. We'll need all the distractions we can get. Be strong, my dear."

He slams the phone down and turns to look at me. His eyes are wild with an emotion I've never seen from him before: fear. "Boss, you need to leave _right fucking now_."

"Michael? What's wrong?" Okay, now I'm nervous. Not even the Alpha Ceph scared Michael! Actually, I've never seen him so obviously terrified of anything _period_!

"No time to explain." He's already shoving me out the door. "Listen closely now – there's a back door further down the left hallway, behind the mess area. I don't know if you still have that cloak handy but if you do, use it liberally. Time is of the essence here!"

He pulls me into one final brotherly hug before shooing me down the corridor. "I'll miss you Barnes, you son of a bitch! Now _go_!"

Honestly, what the hell is up with him all of a sudden? Is he preparing for an attack? There's no time to dwell on the possibilities; if something so horrible is coming that even Michael motherfucking Sykes is telling me to get out of Dodge, I'm hoofing it.

I fly out the rear exit the same moment a banshee releases its bloodcurdling scream:

"_IDW DA NYAAAAAAAAAAA_!"

My skin goes pale; my blood freezes in my veins. Don't even ask me how that's possible anymore. But I keep moving. I _have _to keep moving.

I wonder if Magal has crashed.

Alcatraz, if the noise woke you up – _please _take your body back. I'm sorry, I'll never do it again, yadda yadda and all that good stuff. I just came here to say goodbye to Michael; whatever happens with the rest of this G&K circus, it's all on you now. Because I sure as shit ain't dealing with it.

* * *

**Sorry for the long wait. This chapter didn't want to write itself… ugh. Might go back and tweak a few things later.**

**I think the main issue was that Prophet is way more challenging to write than Alcatraz. Alcatraz has a whole novel written from his perspective which gave me plenty of source material to work with. Prophet's personality is harder to pinpoint, especially when you consider how much of it the Nanosuit took away or changed. I'm shooting for a 'mature yet guilt-ridden' approach, closer to how he was portrayed at the end of the third game. **

**Anyway, I think that about ties up most of the background exposition needed. Next chapter will return to Alky's point of view. Things are about to get hectic, so buckle up and get your popcorn ready.**

**And in case anyone's curious, Soppo should appear by Chapter 11, maybe 12 at the latest.**


	10. Round Two

**Guys. I just discovered a pistol called the Yeet Cannon. You know what this means, right? If anyone with contacts in MICA Team happens to be reading this… make it happen.**

* * *

**(The Village, Early Morning)**

The first thing I see when I wake up is a wooden ceiling I don't immediately recognize. Panic shoots through my veins a split second before I remember where I am: the Paskov brothers' village. My muscles slacken, and my breathing slows. I'm at the Paskovs' cabin, not another laboratory. I'm safe here.

Ugh, my head… I knew I'd regret having so much to drink last night, but hey, when life offers you authentic Russian vodka, you shut up and accept the authentic Russian vodka. Suppose I can check that off my bucket list. I really gotta hand it to Damir – the dude sure knows how to make a houseguest feel welcome.

Had the weirdest fucking dream, too, and although I don't remember much about it, I know darn well it wasn't a pleasant one. Psycho was involved in some way, I think. Can't really say for certain. It's all sort of blurred together in a twisting, formless mass– faces and voices, familiar and unfamiliar, appearing and disappearing before I could put a name to any of them. The only concrete thing I can recall is lots of noise, like shouting, along with this horrible screech near the end. And I mean_ truly_ horrifying, like the wails of eternally damned souls as they futilely try to claw their way out of the pits of Hell.

Maybe that's the reason I almost freaked out a minute ago. Geez, since when have I gotten so damn jumpy?

I don't give the dream any more thought, because sweet Lord above, I am suffering from the worst hangover since my old CO's engagement party. I force my eyelids to blink through cold sweat as I sit up and stumble off the couch I'd borrowed for the night.

"Morning, comrade."

I'm barely cognizant enough to register the accented, slightly slurred voice that greets me once I'm on moderately steady legs.

I grunt something back that might've sounded like "Hey."

Water… I need some water. I give myself a mental pat on the back when I manage to stumble my way to the kitchen sink without tripping over something. Cold liquid splashes over my face, and when I can see clearly again, I take a long drink straight from the faucet to wash away the pungent aftertaste of Russian-brewed goodness.

I meander over to the small kitchen table once I've had my fill and put out a chair. I still feel a bit groggy but it's nothing I don't have plenty of experience dealing with already. When you've seen the things I've seen, done the things I've done, you learn to put up with minor inconveniences like the morning after. Damir's seated across from me, nursing his own hangover with a tall glass of water.

The cabin itself is nothing fancy, but it's connected to the village's electrical grid, and more importantly it's spacious enough to accommodate three residents without them bumping into each other at every turn. Most of the inside space is taken up by a main living area with an attached kitchenette. A short hallway close to the kitchen table leads to a bathroom and singular bedroom with two separate beds. The whole house is actually in better shape than half the places I've lived, if I'm being honest.

"Lev made pancakes," the older twin says with some difficulty, halfheartedly motioning to a plate stacked high with the breakfast goods. There's also some freshly made butter and a bottle of syrup with a label in Cyrillic next to it. "Go ahead, my friend. Eat."

A generous offer. However, that would mean I'd have to get up and grab another plate as well as some silverware, and considering my current state, it's not worth the effort yet. Plus, after the little spectacle M249 put on with her food yesterday, I've kind of been turned off from syrup. I still feel my teeth ache at the memory even though I'm pretty sure I can't get dental problems anymore.

"I'm not hungry right now."

Damir snorts in amusement. "Honestly, neither am I."

"Where is Lev, anyway?"

"At his day job. He left about an hour ago."

"Ah." I thought I was only imagining the more positive atmosphere around here. Not that I _dislike _Lev, mind you, but his attitude and permanent scowl won't be winning him any friends. Dude seriously needs to get laid.

Hmm. Maybe I can subtly push him in Mk23's direction. Maybe Damir can help. It would be amusing to try, if nothing else.

The two of us sit in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes, content do nothing while we wait for the alcohol's effects to wear off. The absence of anything else to distract me gives my mind an opening to wander back to that odd dream. I can't put my finger on why, but… something about it felt more detailed than it should've. Like it wasn't entirely_ just _a dream.

Just the thought of that makes me bristle for some unknown reason. I feel like I've been… what's a good word to describe it... violated, in some way.

The negative feeling is pushed aside when Damir tries for more small talk. "Sleep well last night?" he asks. Despite his polite tone, he's eyeing me in a curious way, smirking as though he's privy to an embarrassing secret regarding me.

"Uh, I guess so." My reply comes out stiff, awkward. There's definitely a hidden meaning behind his words – I pick up on that right away, but I'm not sure what it is and that bothers me. Did I do something stupid while I was drunk? Wouldn't be the first time. "…What's up? Did something happen?"

Still smiling, Damir sips his water, then shrugs. "You could say that," he says cryptically. He puts his water aside and folds his hands together, looking me square in the eye.

Yep. Definitely did something stupid.

"Listen, comrade, I understand you are concerned about M4." Damir tells me patiently. Before I can open my mouth to inquire what she has to do with anything, he continues, "And I appreciate you not wanting to wake us up, but if you really needed to borrow our truck, I would have preferred you asked us directly." He sighs, leaning back in his chair, somehow oblivious to the confusion etched on my face. "Lev was _furious _when we found your note. He had half a mind to throw the couch out while you were still on it."

Note? What note? And what's this about the truck? What the hell is he _talking _about?

"Dude, you're not making sense. What happened last night?"

Damir doesn't answer verbally. Instead he takes a piece of notebook paper out of his pants pocket and slides it across the table. Snatching it up, I unfold it and immediately eyeball the hastily scrawled text:

_Damir, Lev:_

_Sorry you had to find out like this but I just couldn't wait any longer. I keep thinking about M4, and the truth is, I'm worried sick. How is she doing at base? Are they treating her well? I don't know, and it's making me lose sleep. I need to check on her. It's the only way to put my mind at ease._

_I'm taking the truck to base to visit her. Shouldn't be gone longer than a few hours – with any luck I'll be back and sleeping like a baby before either of you wake up, like nothing ever happened. Hopefully the $20 I left on the table will cover the gas cost. _

_Again, I'm sorry for springing this on you, especially after all the hospitality you've shown me, but it's just something I need to do._

_-James_

"I am personally calling bullshit on the whole 'just checking up on her' thing," Damir says once I've finished reading. Completely subverting what I expected to be an angry reaction, his smirk widens into a mischievous smile that rivals Springfield's. "I am not my brother, comrade. I would not judge you if you and that Doll have a little something-something going on in private. You are an adult male, same as I, da? We have our needs. And she is rather cute…"

I'm only half-listening, pouring through the note over and over again. If I take it at face value, then sure; I wouldn't put it past myself to drive drunk to Sykes' base out of some adoptive-older-brotherly concern. Chino once noted I'm prone to making emotional decisions when I'm intoxicated.

Then why can't I remember anything that happened? My memory's not perfect anymore, sure, but it's not _bad_ by any stretch. And I'd definitely remember writing a note this professional. There _has _to be a clue in it somewhere…

The fourth time I read it is when I notice the problem.

That's not my handwriting.

And I'm sure as hell that my neural connection with the N2 is the reason I automatically recognize whom it actually belongs to. My whole body suddenly turns to jelly, the note slipping from my hands to the floor. I feel like I've just taken a thousand volts to the heart.

Don't freak out, Alcatraz. Not freaking out is your number one priority. You don't want a repeat of the farmhouse incident. Remember what they taught you in the Ar- in the _Marines_. Losing your shit won't solve anything. Keep your head clear, process the situation, and don't do anything to jeopardize yourself and the team.

"Comrade? What is the matter?" Damir's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.

The team… or in this case, Damir. One of the precious few lifelines I have in this changed world. He's… I wouldn't call him a friend yet, more like friendly acquaintance, but the simple thought of alienating him if I blow my lid is enough incentive to force myself back to a functional state.

That doesn't mean I feel any better on the inside, however. My stomach churns to prove the point.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," is all I say to him before hauling ass to the bathroom. The door slams as he's in the middle of needling me about not being able to handle my vodka.

The next five minutes play out eerily similar to an occurrence or two from the Sangvis facility. Once I've become intimately familiar with the toilet bowl, I drag myself to look at the dingy mirror above the sink. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me. Those eyes… those fucking blue eyes, the only part of my physiology that doesn't match my original human form. They're a constant, nagging reminder of what I really am. Of what's inside of me. _Who's _inside.

So I try to fix it. I grit my teeth, concentrate with all my effort to correct the color, and for a fraction of a second, I might've seen a spark of green but it disappears so quickly I could've just been imagining it.

The effort is more taxing than I'd anticipated and I'm burnt out after a while. The exertion leaves me panting like a dog in summer heat, the _thump-thump-thump _of my heart pounding against my ribs echoing in my eardrums. Okay, so the eyes aren't going anywhere. Fine. Whatever. At least I'm still seeing my own face in the mirror, and not _his_.

I've had my suspicions, but…

"What's your fucking goal here?" The glowing orbs in the mirror threaten to burn holes through me, not that I care. I'm not speaking to my reflection right now. "Why can't you just let go? The Ceph are done for. Your war is over, and your reason for living with it." Harsh and petty, I know, but it's also true. Can he even hear me? No idea.

A low, frustrated growl rumbles in my throat, aimed as much at the universe in general as him. Why is it so fucking hard for me to find some peace? Just when I think I've got things handled, just when I'm beginning to scrape together a decent life in this messed-up future, an unpleasant reminder of my past waltzes up and threatens to tear it all down. And that's all Laurence Barnes is to me – an unwanted presence, like an asshole relative who suddenly wants to be involved in your life after you win a ton of money.

"So why?" I watch my reflection's eye twitch. "Why are you still holding on, Prophet? _Why_?"

No answer is forthcoming from the mirror or the man within me. My hands grip the sink tighter; it takes conscious effort not to shatter the porcelain. I lean in closer.

"Let's make something clear here, Barnes. You might've owned the suit first, but this is and always will be _my_ body. You got that? _Mine_. Even a fancy billion-dollar Nanosuit is nothing but a useless piece of hardware without a human to drive it."

Still no answer. Classic Prophet, I think with a light snort. Either he's adhering to that strict 'need-to-know basis' bullshit mentality that frequently put him at odds with Psycho or he's just too much of a pussy to show himself.

Whatever the case is, he's in no mood to talk. I leave the bathroom with a parting warning:

"Pull a stunt like that again, fucker, and I'll make you wish you'd moved on."

I meander back to the kitchen, finding Damir's helped himself to a pancake while I was away. The older twin gives me a concerned look when I come into view.

"Feeling better, comrade?"

No.

"A little." I allow my inner fatigue to show, if only to sell the story that I'd simply had too much to drink. "Thanks for asking. Got any plans today?" I continue, eager to push the parasite called Prophet out of my thoughts.

"_Da_, I plan to bring you to work with me. Do not give me that look," he chuckles at my surprised expression. "You thought you could, what is word, 'chill' here without pulling your weight? _Nyet_, my friend. Even my charity has its limits." He gestures with his fork to the pancakes. "Now dig in and make yourself presentable within the next hour. Time is money, so they say, haha!"

I oblige without complaint. Should've expected something like this, really – the Paskovs seem like they're getting by comfortably, although it would be stupidly presumptuous of me to believe they can support a house guest long-term. Depending on how difficult that is, and whether or not Lev can forgive 'me' for taking the truck, I'll try to be out of their hair and on the road by the day after tomorrow.

And if Prophet decides he has an issue with that… well. He once told me that if I'd really wanted to take my body back, I would've done so. He'll eventually learn, one way or another, that I don't plan to give it up a second time without a hell of a fight.

The note is forgotten as I dine and chat with Damir.

* * *

**(The Village)**

Two days turn into three, then four, then six. Before I know it over a week has passed, and I find myself settling into a routine.

Life, for the first time in God knows how long, is normal: no aliens, mercs, or rogue T-Dolls. Just a couple of Russian dudes and a crash course on repair work.

Damir serves as the village's handyman, fixing up tools and appliances for a fee. My assistance for the first week, if you can even call it that, was minimal. I was relegated to watching him work and taking notes as he lectured me about which doohickeys in a power drill go where and why propane grills are easier to clean than charcoal ones. I stopped calling him Hank Hill after it became clear he didn't understand what I was talking about.

Even though I _slightly _bungled my first project (in my defense, who uses the low power setting on microwaves anyway?), it's honest and practical work, which I can definitely get behind. I've always liked doing busywork. It gives me something to focus my energy toward, lets me tune out the background noise.

My free time is split between household chores and poring over documents at the tiny local library. _Makeyeva _is the village's official name, I learned early on, named after the dude who founded it in the early 2030s. Story goes he was one of many disgruntled laborers who sought to escape CELL's monopoly on the energy market by creating their own places where modern technology usage was limited. In hindsight, very smart move. Prophet's war with System X likely played holy hell on the world's power grid; while the major cities would've been left in states of catastrophe, little nowhere villages like Makeyeva would've been inconvenienced at worst.

I finally found out where I am geographically, too: forty miles east of Berdychiv, which puts me in Ukraine. That confused me for the longest time. I'm in a village populated by Russians. M4 said I was in Russia back at the farmstead. Was I missing something?

Then it hit me: Ukraine was a part of the previous Soviet Union. Even after its dissolution, Russia's hard-on for its former territory never wavered. It's painfully easy to envision Moscow seeking to re-conquer the NSU's old stomping lands, especially when the the rest of the world was shaken by the triple calamities of ELID, the Ceph, and World War III.

I'd thought about traveling to Kyiv and catching a flight back stateside. For now though, I'm in no rush to leave Makeyeva. I'm coming to like the simplicity of the place. It's bigger than the abandoned village where M4 and I first met the twins, but not by much. No one raises a fuss about a Yank moving in. I continue to work with Damir, who I'm beginning to see as a brother figure.

For the first time since New York, I can relax and indulge in some good old normalcy without any looming sense of danger clouding my mind. It's a refreshing change of pace.

Now, you might be wondering _Where does Lev fit into all this? _Well, I'll tell you:

"Just when I am beginning to think our customers cannot possibly be any dumber… 'Do you sell flowers?' _Do we sell flowers_?! Ugh, does it _look _like we are in a florist's shop, you old crone?!"

Yeah. Never said it would be pretty. Luckily for me, his hatred of his job eclipses his anger at 'my' midnight joyride.

Lev's a clerk at a gas station convenience store, and if the stories he brings home in addition to the groceries are even a third true, it's a pretty shitty place to work. His manager apparently rules with a tyrannical iron fist – not even a discount for the peasants slaving away under him. Throw in the whole Mk23 thing and there's really no questioning why the younger twin is always in a foul mood.

More than once I've floated the idea of paying his boss a visit and teaching him a little humility. What always stops me in the end is the worry that Lev, whom most folks know by now is associated with me, might take the brunt of the fallout, and he's under enough stress as it is.

His customers aren't exactly the brightest bunch either, I'm learning as the three of us walk down a dirt street with our guns slung over our backs. Damir invited me to go hunting with him and his brother today. I agreed, and now we're on our way to a gun shop to grab some ammo for what will likely be an all-day excursion.

It also says a lot about the state of the world and the country we're in when we can carry instruments of murder unconcealed without anyone batting an eye. Reminds me of the good ol' US of A back in mid-2020, but let's not open that can of worms.

Lev turns to me. "Who was that man, the one who believed in survival of the fittest?"

"Charles Darwin?"

"That is him, thank you Rodriguez. Well you know what? Darwin was _wrong_! How can there still be so many idiots left after ELID killed billions? I'd quit retail for good if I could find a better job! Arrgh, the unfairness of it all!"

"Do not be so quick to judge, my brother. I would bet that even a total imbecile can achieve great things if they put their mind to it," Damir chips in, and let me tell you, he hits the nail right on the head. Look at me, for example.

Lev snorts in disbelief. "You say that, but you are not the one being hounded by wastes of skin who refuse to do the world a favor by dying. Goddamn parasites…"

He has no idea how much I can sympathize. There's been no further activity from Prophet since the first night – a blessing if I've ever experienced one. Maybe the bastard's too chickenshit to try anything else now that he knows I'm aware of him.

Whatever shenanigans he got up to that night haven't caused any lasting damage, however, so I'm willing to tamper down on my grievances and let it all slide. Just this once.

"Oh _da_, I almost forgot! We are scheduled to visit Griffin base soon." Damir sends a conspiratorial wink in my direction. "Your girl will be very happy to see you again, no?"

Except that part. That part makes me want to breach wherever Prophet's essence is hiding and wring his digital neck.

Damir's been grilling me about my relationship with M4A1 since the minute we left base, and Prophet's activities only added gasoline to the fire. He's adamant that she and I hold deeper feelings for each other than we let on no matter _how many times_ I tell him otherwise. Unless I want to tell him none of that was actually _my_ doing, that my body's on a timeshare program with another person – sure, because _that _sounds more believable – I'm forced to play along with Prophet's excuse. It gets taxing at times.

I _do _kind of miss M4, though. Suppose it would be nice to pay her a surprise visit, see what she's been up to over the last week. I wonder if she's made any headway on finding her lost sis-

_AWWWOOOOOOOOO!_

Then a siren ear-rapes the whole village and Lev shouts something but we're all too deaf to hear it and my little bubble of normalcy abruptly bursts. From the central town hall's loudspeaker, someone hollers an announcement in Russian. Translations appears in my eyeballs:

_"__Sangvis Ferri forces have been spotted from the north and are advancing! Repeat, Sangvis Ferri is approaching from the north! Assemble the militia! Defend the walls! All non-combatants, stay calm and evacuate to the town hall! Griffin & Kryuger has received our distress signal and reinforcements will arrive within the hour! Until then, people of Makeyeva, WE MUST HOLD!" _

My first thought is admittedly, _This place has a militia? _Followed by, _It's Soviet Russia; of _course _there's a militia._ But even when you factor in the 'kill all humans' agenda, why would SF choose to attack a village that's strategically worthless?

Damir, face paling, echoes my thoughts: "I… I do not understand! Why have they come for us?!" he cries as the street around us descends into a weird type of controlled chaos. The civvies, surprisingly, follow orders instead of immediately regressing into panic mode; most of them make a beeline toward the relative safety of the town hall, the only building in the village made of high-grade concrete. A few people lag behind to assist the elderly. Several men of varying ages, all armed with rifles and pistols, burst from their homes and haul ass to the northernmost part of town.

Why do I have a feeling they'd rehearsed for this scenario?

"Who cares why they're here? We must get to safety, now!" Lev cuts in, pulling his distraught brother by the sleeve.

I watch as the gun store owner, a WWIII veteran with streaks of gray in his hair, hobbles out of his shop lugging a whole ammo box with him. My augments instantly see through the brave front he's putting on – in reality he's one scare away from wetting his pants. I look at the battered AKM resting on his back. I look at my shotgun, stained in the coolant of countless Sangvis mooks and one Ringleader. Realization hits me.

Holy shit. It's not the village Sangvis is after – it's _me_.

There's no other explanation. Somehow they must've tracked me down, assembled an assault force and plan to pick up where they left off in the facility. Their master must still be chomping at the bit after the trouncing I gave her flunkies.

I fucked up, oh _god_ I fucked up. I should've skipped town a week ago, stayed mobile, stuck to the old plan. But I faltered, I allowed myself to grow content, and now they've found me and I've put a whole village of innocents in danger, and it's all my _fault _and-

"Comrade James! Where are you going?" Damir's call is left unanswered. I sprint north just fast enough to not draw suspicion to my true nature, although it's still some impressive leg power.

I hear the twins' brief struggle even though I'm a block away.

"Comrade James!"

"Damir, what the-?! Hey! Leave that _dubiina_ alone and get back here! We are hunters, not soldiers! GET BACK HERE!"

* * *

**(Ten Minutes Later)**

I had no trouble finding the wall or convincing the militia chief to let the odd Yank participate in the defense. The criteria to join could be boiled down to two things: Got a gun? Want to kill some SF? If the answer to both these questions is yes, then great; now find a spot and hunker your ass down.

Quick geography lesson: Makeyeva's original settlers cut down every tree in a half-mile radius, using the lumber to erect fortified barriers that encircle roughly three-quarters of the village. In addition to being too high to climb over from outside, wooden platforms and walkways were constructed on the inside portion to allow the defenders a key advantage of longer sight lines – especially advantageous when the attackers' only cover is dead tree stumps. Obi-Wan Kenobi would be damn proud of the architects who realized the significance of the high ground.

Even though it was built with ELID's snot zombies in mind, the defense is holding up remarkably well in this dustup against Sangvis. SF is packing some big numbers and they're not shy about using them, but if they want to take this village, they'll have to cross a veritable no-man's land guarded by almost two dozen pissed off Russians plus me.

To some, it's a serious fight for survival. To others, however, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to go totally apeshit, stupid as that is.

"_Kooshay govno sooka_!" Damir cheers as a lucky shot from his FY71 finds its mark in an advancing Ripper. "You want some more?! I will gladly give you more! Have at me, _cuchka derganaya_!"

I could tell right from the opening volley that he's never seen combat before. He's been gung-ho from the get-go, laying down long bursts of suppressive gunfire when he's not hurling insults at the Dolls. I made an honest effort to convince him to turn away before the fighting started. He'd had none of that, stating with conviction that Makeyeva was his home and he'd defend it to his last breath. Okay, whatever. It means I won't take the blame if he gets himself killed.

From his spot to my right, poking the barrel of his Grendel through a hole in the wood, Lev hisses, "Stop insulting them and get your head down! You're going to make yourself a target, _opezdol_!" He punctuates his statement with a loud _crack _from his rifle.

I'm calling bullshit on his claim of not being a fighter. The younger brother's turning out to be a naturally gifted marksman; every pull of the trigger reduces another Doll to a lifeless shell fit for recycling. He'd have made a fine candidate for scout sniper school if he were in the Marine Corps.

"Shit, more Dinergates!" The militia chief's voice can barely be picked out through the cacophony of gunfire and profanity. "Kamayev, Rodriguez!"

"_Da, _on it!"

I grab a lemon grenade from a crate sitting so close it rubs against my leg, which a) is absurdly dangerous, and b) has me wondering what else G&K trades with the villagers under their umbrella of influence. No time to ponder that: I've got visual on a pack of thirty Dinergates rushing us. I pull the pin and let it sail, Kamayev mimicking the action from further down left.

Swarms of the critters have been showing up every minute or so. My guess is they're meant to throw off our focus, because the first time they showed up, the militia shifted most of its fire toward them. That was a costly fucking mistake; with our attention turned on their pets, the Dolls had room to regroup and reorganize.

We lost a guy in the counterattack, cutting us down to seventeen men. We'd started with twenty. Remember, Makeyeva's in the middle of bumfuck nowhere – the population doesn't exceed sixty.

Sangvis can afford to take casualties. We can't.

So we put our heads together and improvised a quick solution. Kamayev was selected to be the main grenadier; apparently his throwing arm stems from a love of American baseball. So far it hasn't proven to be a bad decision.

I was also chosen because, well, I'm the only fucker on the wall with a shotgun, and shottys aren't exactly known for their ability to lay down continuous suppression. I tried switching to slug rounds earlier but that was only a marginal improvement. Oh well. Grenades are more fun, anyway.

Both 'nades hit the dirt, bounce, and roll into the stampede before detonating, momentarily drowning out the noise of our never-ending barrage. The explosion rips over two-thirds of the Dinergates apart, sending twisted metal and fried electronics flying in all directions. And at first I'm thinking, that's okay, we got most of the pack and there aren't enough left to pose a threat, right? We've already got a few robo-doggos directly under us anyway; survivors from previous swarms ineffectually pawing and ramming at the solid wood barricade.

But something's different this time. My augmented eyesight catches a still-operational Dinergate limping toward us through the chaos of battle. It looks bulkier than the others, like someone put a brick on top of it. It's also close enough that a slug round should be able to take it out if I aim carefully.

And I definitely hit it alright, because the little toaster from hell _explodes_.

"Fuck! That was an IED!" I shout in warning.

"I-E-what?" Damir asks.

"They strapped _bombs _to the damn things!"

Suddenly the Dinergates move up a few notches on our priority targets list. We're forced to divert more manpower toward them, which SF immediately capitalizes on. The Dolls push closer, and the militia tries to force them back the best they can but between the return fire and having to deal with suicide Dinergates, our holdout strategy is slowly but gradually beginning to crack.

I load and fire the Marshall as fast as possible – SF is so close now that I'm actually getting kills, which is deeply worrying – while more and more militiamen abandon their guns altogether and start chucking grenades like hot potatoes. Then the guy standing next to Damir suddenly takes a shot to the dome, and his face just _melts_; you can see the cooked meat underneath, you can see his eyes boiling in their sockets, sizzling like eggs in a fucking pan. The smell is ungodly. He takes a second hit, dead before he topples off the side of the wall.

"_Cyka blyat_! Pyotr!" the older Paskov cries. Snarling viciously, he dumps a full mag into the advancing horde of machine women, paying absolutely no heed to his own safety. "He was my friend, you demons!"

"Get down!" I yank the guy into cover a second before he's riddled with plasma bolts. "The fuck was that about, huh? You gonna die and leave Lev by himself?" I scold him, pausing to peek over the wall. That has to be close to a hundred SF closing in on us. "Fucking hell…"

Damir takes several deep breaths while he slots a fresh magazine into his rifle. He faces me once he calms down, and for the first time since we've met, there's genuine fear in his eyes. "This is bad, _tovarisch_," he says through the screaming and explosions. "I hope Commander Sykes' forces get here soon, otherwise we will not last another half hour!"

From my other side, Lev adds, "My idiot brother speaks truth. At this rate I would be happy to have little cat tramp here!"

Another few minutes of fierce fighting pass, and true to Damir's prediction the situation is looking increasingly grim. Our already low numbers are whittled down to a measly nine. Kamayev and the militia chief are among the dead. Our supply of frag grenades, the best defense we have against Dinergates, is nearly exhausted.

"Last mag!" Damir shouts.

"Son of a-!" A superheated projectile singes Lev's sleeve, forcing him to duck behind cover. "This makes no sense!" he rages. "Forget their motive; Sangvis could have wiped us out in the first minute if they really desired! Why are any of us still alive?!"

He raises a very good point, actually. Even if the terrain isn't working in their favor, SF possesses far superior weapons and numbers. They could've rushed the barricade all at once, or flanked us, or any other number of tactics. Instead they've been sending their units out in waves from one direction. The question is, why are they drawing it out? Why fight a lengthy battle of attrition when they could easily crush the resistance? What's the _point_?

_Are you forgetting this is your fault_? a mocking voice in my head interjects. _Who cares about the why? You still brought them here. But it's not too late. You can end this right now, if you stop being a chickenshit._

…I_ can_ break the siege right now. It's so fucking obvious in hindsight. Sangvis came here for me, right? All I need to do is show them Nanosuit 2 and book it out of the village within their line of sight.

Losing them would be a chore. But if I can lure them away from the village, let them chase me like wolves after a rabbit, then the fighting would probably stop. I just need to summon the combat threads.

I just need to reveal my darkest secret to the Paskovs.

Uh… yeah. I mean, I've thought about telling them before – maybe not the full story, but enough so I wouldn't become a monster in their eyes. I just… never got around to doing it, that's all.

Should've expected that reluctance would come back to bite me in the ass, I muse silently as I feverishly work to extract a misfired shell.

Another scream, another _thump _of a fresh corpse hitting the earth. I feel my teeth grinding together. Dammit, Alcatraz, stop being a selfish asshole and do what's right! This is about the survival of an innocent village! Man up and _put on the fucking armor_!

The shotgun's back in working order and freshly loaded. I swallow heavily. "Lev, Damir… it's been a pleasure knowing you guys, but I-"

"They're retreating!" a shout of palpable relief interrupts.

Wait, what?

I risk poking my head over the wall. A couple other militiamen do the same like a family of curious meercats.

And I'm thinking holy crap, the town crier is right: Sangvis Ferri is pulling back; they're beating a methodical yet hasty retreat back to the forested perimeter they'd been pouring from. The damaged Dolls are left behind, perhaps unsurprisingly. Even the Dinergates suddenly stop charging, turning to run with their non-existent tails between their stubby legs.

The few surviving militia don't question the odd stroke of luck. Thunderous cheers break out as the last SF units disappear into the trees. We did it, we drove them back, and we're alive holy _shit_ we're alive. Damir embraces his brother and starts crying in a mix of happiness and post-combat clarity, the realization that he'd been fighting for his life and survived when others didn't. Lev quietly returns the hug and pats a comforting hand on his twin's back, though his shaking hand gives away his own emotional state.

As for me, I'm suspicious. There's no way that should have happened, fortuitous as it was. Sangvis threw in the towel when they were on the cusp of victory? I'm not buying it. This can't be over yet.

I stare out at the edge of the field where the rogue Dolls retreated, preparing myself for whatever else they're planning, and to my surprise it's SECOND that gives me a clue. The AI picks up and decrypts a radio transmission coming from approximately a mile away:

_"__Excellent job, all of you! You played your roles perfectly. However, I've grown terminally bored sitting back watching you indulge in all the fun. I think it's time I gave this new body some exercise, AHAHAHAHA!"_

Wait. I recognize that voice.

Damir shakes me by the shoulder before I attach a face to the audio. "Why are you not celebrating, comrade James? We have won!" he insists. My eyes are kept firmly on the outskirts. Tension builds up inside of me.

"We haven't won," I warn him, "not yet. Grab your guns!"

He's ready to question me further when I spot something: a black blur bursts from the treeline at an insane speed, ebbing and weaving like water through the carnage littering the battlefield. The entity uses a tree stump as a springboard and takes a fantastic leap; it vaults right over our heads, we crane our necks upward to see what the fuck this thing is, and for a fraction of a second I make out flowing hair and a monstrous arm through the afternoon sun silhouetting it.

The Doll clears the barricade with no effort and lands fifteen meters behind us. She stretches to her full height, mechanical joints creaking and whirring noisily, then turns to face our ragtag group with a smug grin, resting her massive greatsword over her shoulder.

"Human militia!" she announces. "You insects fought better than I'd expected, and for that I commend you. However!" She pauses to twirl the sword in a circle with her oversized hand. "I'm afraid I have no further use for you. Make peace with your human god, because your end has arrived!"

"Executioner," I whisper without thinking.

What the hell? I scrapped that bitch personally a couple of weeks ago. I ran her through with her own sword, for chrissake! How in the honest-to-god fuck is she alive?

I see Damir glance at me out of the corner of my vision. "You know this tramp?"

"We've been… acquainted." See, this is why I don't talk much. My mouth is a fountain of trouble. "She's a Ringleader – one of the toughest and nastiest Dolls in SF, kinda like their special forces."

Lev looks at Executioner, then to me, then back at her. He sums up our new dilemma in one very appropriate word:

"_Blyat_."

While the villagers nervously prep for battle, my mind's working overtime processing the situation. Shit. Okay. Executioner – what do I know about Executioner? Close combat specialist, illegally fast, and harder to put down than a goddamn cockroach. Possibly into BDSM, still haven't confirmed that yet.

Who do we have left? I check out the remaining militiamen. Nearly all of them are hunters or sport shooters, not trained soldiers. The gun shop owner's still alive, and he's the only dude left with real military experience, but that won't mean much against a Sangvis Ringleader. Overall they'd last maybe twenty seconds in a fair fight.

Crap. Guess we'll have to settle this the hard way rather than the impossible way.

"This was my fault, you guys. I'm so fucking sorry." I meet two confused sets of eyes and give them orders: "Take the others and get to safety. I'll stall Executioner until help arrives."

"How, comrade?" Damir immediately protests. "She will surely kill you! You are only human!"

Familiar white-hot needles poke my brain but the pain is secondary to the memory. Glimpses of a beach: Three pairs of dog tags, thrown into the still waters of the ocean where they can rest easy. An acceptance of the unforgivable sins committed.

_"__For now, the war is over. I made mistakes along the way. But after all… I'm only human."_

"Not entirely."

I hit the dirt, stalking toward Executioner, ignoring Damir's panicked call of "Comrade!" and the rest of the militia's confused mutterings. I stop midway between the civvies and the Ringleader, ready to shield them with my body if need be. She raises a thin black brow but doesn't lose her smile.

"I dunno how you survived our scrap in the facility, or how you tracked me down…" It could just be the anticipation speaking – and I seriously hope that's all it is – but I almost sense Nanosuit 2 rippling, like it's impatiently waiting for me to let it out so I can tear this bitch a new one. "But if you think I'm gonna let your android ass drag me to the operating table without a fight, you're dead fucking wrong."

Executioner cocks her head, crimson eyes boring into mine. Her reply throws me for a loop:

"Have we met before?"

…What?

Does she somehow not remember me? I find that hard to believe. She's seen me naked, for crying out loud!

"Don't recognize my face, huh? That's okay. Maybe _this _will help jog your memory."

Jet black bioengineered material creeps like vines over my skin. My form grows larger, bulkier, _stronger_. I rip away the plaid shirt that was already failing to contain the synthetic muscle mass and titanium exoskel framing my pectorals. The overalls and boots are equally disposed of to make way for Jack Hargreave's billion-dollar masterpiece; the culmination of a century's worth of alien R&D.

Executioner's not the only one shocked by my sudden shift from human to golem. Evidently the militia's taking their sweet-ass time evacuating. Behind me I hear several gasps and surprised cries:

"What in God's name is that thing?!"

"C-c-comrade James…?!"

"I knew it! I _knew _there was something off about him! This is what you get for blindly trusting strangers, Damir!"

Although my focus is steadfastly kept on Executioner, I wince on the inside. That cut deep, deeper than I'd thought it would. Can't afford to wallow about it right now, though – I've got more pressing concerns.

"Hold on a moment… is that the CryNet Nanosuit 2?" The swordswoman doesn't give me time to answer before throwing her head back, letting out a deranged laugh. "Oh, this is perfect! Yes, it's all coming back to me now. You caused our master quite a bit of trouble after-"

_BANG!_

Buckshot embeds itself in the flat of her blade, brought out to shield its owner at the last moment.

"DON'T INTERRUPT ME WHEN I'M MONOLOGUING!" she screeches.

Crap, I thought I could catch her with her guard down. I miss Destroyer's grenade launcher. Whatever; every second Executioner wastes flapping her gums is another second closer until Psycho's underdressed band of misfits gets here.

"Sorry. My finger slipped." Her flat expression says she isn't buying my bullshit. I couldn't care less. "Continue."

She harrumphs but prattles on. "Master warned us our target might prove to be… troublesome. She'd ordered Scarecrow, Destroyer and I to back up our digi-minds before departing in the unlikely event we failed. I'd laughed it off at the time, of course. There was no way even a hybrid freak like yourself could stand alone against three SF Ringleaders!"

And yet, I did. It took plenty of underhanded tactics and a bit of luck, but I escaped them. I _killed _them.

Executioner widens her grin, seemingly having read my mind. There's no warmth in that smile – just cold, quiet animosity. "The next thing I remember is waking up in a spare body, along with my partner and the munchkin." Slowly she begins to strafe me. We circle one other like sharks that smell blood in the water. "Agent was _furious_. None of us could understand how a simple capture mission could've ended with the loss of all units. Master deemed you a problem for a later time after we lost track of you, and instead returned our attention toward annihilating Griffin & Kryuger."

She laughs again. "But look at where we are now! I'll bet neither of us expected to bump into each other in this backwater village, huh, _Alcatraz_?"

Okay, lots of info to digest here.

One: Sangvis Ringleaders can apparently pull a Nanosuit 2 and cheat death by storing backup copies of their minds. I shouldn't have to explain to you how bad that is.

Two: The assault on Makeyeva _wasn't _my fault. Executioner confirmed she hadn't known I was here. Which leads me to number three…

I just gave myself away by accident.

Nice job, Alky. Way to make an already FUBAR situation worse. But hold on, if _I_ wasn't the goal here…

"Why did you attack this village?"

"Hmm… I'm growing tired of chatting." Executioner chuckles. She flourishes her blade, readying herself for battle. "Tell you what: I'll let you in on the plan, _if_ you can defeat me. You're clearly a strong opponent – I'd love to know how you overcame us the first time!"

Ceph energy and a giant-ass turret, neither of which I have now.

It's not like I'm defenseless however, fuck no. In fact, I might be better off now than I was in the facility: There are no alien jammers disrupting my suit, and Executioner's fixation on tussling with me one-on-one means she's unlikely to call in reinforcements. Also, there's a reason the pump-action shotgun's been around forever.

Bring it on, tin can. I'll put you down like a sick pig.

"Prepare yourself, Alcatraz!" the Ringleader announces. "I, **_SP524 'Executioner'_**, shall hold nothing back!"

* * *

**(Fitting Battle Music: The Duel [DMC5 OST])**

* * *

**Primary: **Defend the Village: Defeat Executioner

Here we have it, folks, the long-awaited final showdown of this season's _Rage in the Village_, where we're pitting two of our strongest and meanest fighters against one another with the grand prize being the winner's continued survival. Grab a seat and some popcorn, because this is a fight that you're not gonna want to miss!

In the blue corner, clocking in at 230 pounds of nano-knotted nastiness, we have our reigning champion: A blast from the long-gone past who proved his mettle last season using some very controversial methods. Question is though, can he pull off a repeat victory? That's what we're all here to find out. Introducing the Madman of the Marine Corps, the Slayer of Space Squids, and the Dismantler of Dolls; the Man with No Plan, the Suit Guy, the Golem Boy: James – "Alcatraz" – _Rodrigueeeeezzzz_!

And in the red corner, weighing in at – I dunno, probably a lot less, is the T-Doll toting a ridiculously huge sword and an equally large grudge that she's intent on settling in today's match. She's got the muscle and the motivation, no doubt about it, but will those two things be enough to dethrone the champ? I bring you the challenger: The Bitch in Bondage Clothing, the Strongarm of Sangvis, the-

"Here I come!" Executioner suddenly takes off at Mach fucking 1.

Oh _shi_-

I don't even have time to aim. Armor mode's engaged a nanosecond before her Hedge Trimmer of Doom impacts my schnozz: The world tumbles end over end, can't tell where the sky separates from the ground, I'm either kissing the dirt or watching the clouds. Eventually I stop bouncing when I collide with something that feels a lot like metal and roll over it to lay on the street.

Ow.

SECOND crunches numbers on a tactical overlay while I regain my bearings. Oh, would you look at this – Executioner's capable of performing actions at a speed of 0.008 seconds. It perfectly matches the Nanosuit's reaction time. And holy _crap_ – that one hit knocked off _70%_ of my energy bar.

Well, I never anticipated this dustup would be easy.

I climb to my feet, a little dazed but unhurt otherwise. Turns out my out-of-control momentum was arrested by one of Makeyeva's grand total of five cars. My impromptu landing caved in the driver's side roof; too bad no one in this village has auto insurance.

Ah, fuck it, it's a Civic. I practically did the owner a favor.

That also means I have no reservations about using it as a projectile. Amping strength to maximum, I kick that old clunker down the road at Executioner, then follow up by grabbing the closest available object – the village's only mailbox, the really bulky ones – and throwing it after the car for good measure.

Executioner evasively leaps, and to my astonishment, _springboards _off the car hurtling toward her. She brings her sword down vertically, cleaving the mailbox in two before nailing the landing. Dozens of envelopes and colorful postcards flutter to rest around her feet. Behind her, the car smashes the wall's inner platforms to splinters before coming to rest on its roof.

I work very, very hard to keep my attention on the enemy, not on the sound of snapping bones or the growing pool of red around the impact site. The living militiamen might've evacuated the ramparts, but the dead were left behind.

Executioner cackles. "My, you really _are _strong!"

She charges me again, sword poised to strike, although this time I'm ready. I duck out of the way right as she brings her sword down; I take a second to scoop up the Marshall I'd dropped earlier, spin to aim at her and-

And immediately notice she's struggling to maintain balance, digging her metal heels into the soft earth to keep herself from careening farther down the road. I smile wickedly under my helmet. Executioner's faster than a cheetah and hits like a dump truck, although even with her superior combat frame she doesn't seem to have perfect control over her raw speed. Every missed charge leaves her a sitting duck.

I celebrate this discovery with a bang, shooting her twice in the back. Her equally absurd constitution means it's not enough to kill her but you can tell she felt the pain.

She switches tactics, whipping out her energy pistol and laying down fire of her own, using her sword to absorb some of the buckshot flying her way while she zigzags closer to melee range. Okay, two choices here: Play the endurance game and pray my shotty offlines her faster than she can hurt me, or widen the distance and hopefully buy myself a few precious seconds to cobble together a less suicidal plan.

In the end I'm just not the type of soldier to take unnecessary risks.

I sacc' the cloak icon and disappear.

Executioner's not concerned in the slightest, however. "A cloak? What a cowardly tool." She says mockingly. "Though I am pretty excited to see what you'll do next. Where will you strike, I wonder…?"

From the high ground, where else? It was a fine strategy earlier. Unfortunately, when I power jump to the nearest rooftop to get into position, the shoddy construction knocks a few shingles loose… _noisily_.

"There you are! AHAHAHAHA!"

No time to reposition, I can only attempt to weather the storm of plasma bolts peppering my hiding spot. Most of them miss wildly but a few lucky shots connect; the pain's minimal but the capacitors are drained, the cloak's been disrupted, I'm exposed and vulnerable up here. Can't find cover, can't escape. Can't do anything except _attack_ and try to force her on the defensive.

The charge bar crawls up to ten percent – hardly enough to cloak again, but I'm not planning on cloaking. Instead I divert that power to my legs and jump, angling myself above the Ringleader and arching back my fist to piledrive her into oblivion.

It doesn't work, of course. Wasn't honestly expecting it would; I just needed her to stop shooting. She sees my painfully obvious attack from a mile away, falling back a safe distance from ground zero long before the Nanosuit-shaped meteorite crashes down and leaves a shallow crater in the earth. Neither was I expecting her to _not_ retaliate the moment she found an opening.

She puts the pedal to the metal and charges me a third time as I right myself. The suit's recovered enough juice to ensure I won't automatically get cleaved in two but a lot of the damage is sure to bleed through. No way I'll be able to dodge, either; she's too damn close, I've got maybe half a second to hatch an idea and roll with it.

When she's within spitting distance, I turn up strength once again, duck low, and shoulder check the bitch right in the abdomen.

My left arm stings. Don't think about the sword embedded in it, it'll heal and you've gone through so much worse; think about Executioner. She's winded from the blow, which means she's not attacking. Gotta keep the pressure going. I jam the Marshall point-blank into her gut and pull the trigger with one hand.

Executioner cries out, yanking her blade free and slashing blindly at the source of her pain. Too late, bondage freak. I've got you right where I want you. Her fate will be cruel and unusual after what she did today. I fire again, relishing the shotgun's kick as the blast strikes home, muffled by synthetic flesh…

Except it isn't. The gun didn't even go _click_. I risk glancing at it.

What's _left _of it, I should've said. The Sangvis T-Doll's reckless swinging somehow managed to cut the Marshall in half right near where the trigger guard is. It couldn't function as an effective club now, much less a firearm.

Really, universe?

_Really_?

There's a microscopic moment where I realize _I should've brought the M12 along _when a stabbing pain in my chest brings me back to reality. I look through BUD's flashing warning lights and find the hilt of Executioner's sword intimately touching the space between my pectorals. She twists, then pulls the blade out in one smooth motion. Crimson stains the length of the normally black shaft, dripping precious lifeblood onto the soil.

I have enough presence of mind left to engage armor mode before she swings for the fences and sends me rolling down the road like a fucking tumbleweed.

Breathing becomes hard. I feel weakness settling in. Bad sign – it'll take the suit longer to fix a fatal wound like that, longer than I have time to wait. I crawl to my hands and knees, aware of my arms shaking. Executioner starts laughing from nearby:

"Aww, did I break your favorite toy?" Her laughter increases, then descends into a small coughing fit. She's not much better off than I am: Her normal-sized hand is clutching a small hole in her stomach area. Coolant leaks through her fingers and drips down to intermix with my own blood. The sight of it sends shivers down my spine for some inexplainable reason.

I'm back on my feet but they're unsteady. Can't afford to stop now, though, I can't stop fighting until I either scrap her myself or the friendly neighborhood mercs arrive to do it for me. The villagers won't be safe until then.

Weapon, weapon. I need a weapon. I'd scavenge one from a corpse but Executioner's blocking the path. I'm cloaked before the android can think of closing the gap between us again; I retreat into a cramped space between two shops, head on a swivel, desperately searching for any object that looks even remotely useful. Nothing in this tiny alley but overfilled trash bags and discarded junk.

My eyes keep wandering back to one particular item, though, thanks to its bright color causing to stand out against the other bits and pieces of crap like a lighthouse. Hmm.

Ah, why not?

'Bamboozled' is a good way to describe Executioner's facial expression when she notices an orange traffic cone float out of the alleyway seemingly by its own power. She lets out a hearty chuckle when I decloak, eyeing me in amusement.

"Seriously?"

"Bitch, I've killed people with coffee mugs. Don't even try me."

Then, in a move that's three parts _insanely stupid_, a terminal breach of my 'take-no-risks' policy, and a total reversal of what's been happening up until now, I charge at her. Not even using armor mode – I need mobility, and it would crimp my speed.

She's all too happy to meet me in the middle. I hear her delighted laughter as she rushes me – good. I need her to believe this is my final, desperate gambit; that I'm a mortally wounded gazelle fighting until its last breath. And I _am_ hurt, pretty badly in fact. Still can't breathe without glass shards poking at my lungs. However, contrary to what a regular squishy human might think, I've still got plenty of fight left in me.

I throw myself into a slide just as she abruptly sidesteps to her left. The heavy whistling of her sword cuts the air above my head. Dammit, she's getting smarter. She's always been consistent with her bull rushing. Meanwhile, she'd anticipated, correctly, that I had a trick up my sleeve.

That doesn't mean it's now off the table, though. The power slide still caught her by surprise, and just like before, she has to tame her momentum before she can attack again. It's an opportunity I probably won't get twice.

I recover first. I close the distance in two seconds flat, give her a good whack on the cheek when she turns to face me – there's a little _snap_, it's kinda creepy – then finish off by ramming the safety cone over her head with all my strength.

She hollers through the plastic: "HEY! What the hell-?!"

A forearm at maximum armor blocks a clumsy swing. I knock the bitch's sword out of her grip and start _wailing _on her: Lightning fast punches every half second, not aimed anywhere in particular but strong enough to dent steel. Blind rage consumes me. She sent an army to attack a peaceful village, she wanted to crush the last of its resistance by herself. She was outright fucking _giddy _about the carnage. I'm not even thinking anymore, man, my instincts have totally taken over. _My _instincts, not the suit's, not Prophet's, and right now every instinct in my body is screaming at me to beat this tin cunt to within an inch of her miserable life, if for no other reason than to make sure SF can't resurrect her a second time.

I shouldn't have to put up with this. I shouldn't have to _fucking _deal with Skynet rejects after all the _horseshit _I went through beginning in New York. After getting shot countless times by dumbass mercs, forcibly interfaced with alien calamari, going into cardiac arrest at least twice, and cursed to spend the rest of my existence in a fuck-ugly Nanosuit inhabited by a damn body snatcher, the absolute _last _thing I need is to be hounded by robot_ sluts _like Executioner who pop their lady boners at the thought of killing!

Ahem. It's possible I got a bit carried away. Sorry about that. Looking back, maybe it was a good thing Executioner snapped me out of my fury by punching me in the face.

She used her giant arm, too, and I belatedly realized I'd used up all my power in that beatdown. Which means I have no way to counter the five titanium knuckles slamming into where the N2's nose should be.

I'm flat on my back, stunned and helpless as the Ringleader pries the cone off and tosses it away. She glares at me as she retrieves her greatsword. Her expression conveys pure, murderous _rage_.

"Grrr… YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT!"

She lunges. I have no energy to spare; I can't cloak or armor up or do much of anything except try to scuttle away but suddenly she's _right there_. She pins me to the dirt, first with her foot, then her sword. She stabs me over and over and over again. BUD's flashing like crazy, False Prophet drones on about _Operator health at critical condition _and _Seek distance from enemy combatant_. Stuff I fucking _know _already but I'm powerless to do anything about.

The Ringleader stops after what feels like the twentieth thrust but who knows how many it actually was. The suit locks up – I can't move. My chest cavity is ruined. I can't even work my lungs properly. The suit's NOM function is the only thing keeping me on this side, absorbing carbon from the fallen militia and converting it into emergency backup power for life support.

In the darkest recesses of my mind, a small part of me insists it's not worth it and tells me to just shut it all down.

The tip of Executioner's blade touches my throat. "Any last words, Nanosuit warrior?"

Actually, yeah. I try to ask her what Sangvis Ferri was hoping to achieve when they built Dinergates. The word that dribbles out of my mouth instead sounds like "_Glurple_."

She brings her sword up, and I mentally apologize to M4. Guess I won't be paying her a visit after all…

"Comrade James! Hold on!"

"You have finally lost your mind, _opezdol_! Why do you have death wish? Why?!"

A sudden, and more importantly _familiar_ pair of shouting voices gives Executioner pause. Big mistake: A storm of 5.45mm bullets slams into her, forcing the Ringleader to bring her sword up in a defensive posture and back away. She yells something about insects but I'm in too much shock to make it out fully.

Damir, that crazy son of a bitch. He came back for me. And where he goes, Lev's not far behind.

"He is hurt! Lev, keep the Ringleader busy!"

"And just how am I supposed to- Gaaahh, fine!"

A head of blonde hair appears in my vision while ballistic and plasma fire are exchanged in the background. The older twin shakes me gently, not that I feel it. "Comrade James? Are you alive? Speak to me!"

I wish I could, Damir. I really do wish I could. I'd chew you out so goddamn hard for recklessly putting your life on the line that you'd drink yourself into a coma. Alas, I'm not exactly in the best of conditions right now, as you should clearly see. Also, your rifle's empty. Not sure if you're aware of that.

Apparently he is. He looks from my visor to his FY71, tosses it aside and draws a MP-446 Viking pistol he'd somehow acquired without my knowledge.

"I do not care what my brother or anyone else says about you." He tells me as gunshots continue to ring out close by. "You fought for Makeyeva, and that makes you a true comrade. Sit tight, my friends, and allow us to finish this what you started." He takes off to join the battle, leaving me laying there feeling incredibly guilty about hiding my true self from him.

False Prophet chimes in a few moments later to inform me _Preliminary repairs complete_, and a second later the suit unlocks. I'm still weaker than a ninety-year-old paraplegic but at least I can move again. My head rolls to the side, observing the fight between Executioner and the Paskovs.

I want to tell you they're winning. They pair have a strategy going: They've separated, one brother firing at Executioner while the other reloads, run away from the return fire, and flank her whenever possible. Lev actually manages to shoot her sidearm out of her hand, although I can't say for certain whether it was through skilled marksmanship or sheer dumb luck. Factor in the damage I'd caused and she's in a bad spot.

Tragically, for all their bravery, it still boils down to two squishy humans against a Sangvis Ringleader.

"ENOUGH!" Executioner screams, choosing a target and rushing them. The only reason her swipe didn't decapitate Lev is because he slipped while backing up. Shrugging off the pistol rounds impacting her spine, she grabs the younger man's hoodie with her monstrous hand, lifts him up, spins him around in a full circle and throws him at Damir. The two collide with pained shouts, hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Executioner's already on top of them before they can get up.

I hear metal carve into flesh. A scream of agony. Something pale and fleshy hits the ground a foot away from my visor. I crane my neck to look at it.

It's someone's forearm.

No – that's _Damir's _arm. That's _Damir _who's screaming. That's _Damir _bleeding out on the soil nearby.

My vision explodes into red.

I… can't really recall what happened over the next minute. All I know is that one moment I'm laying there broken, and the next I've got Executioner pinned beneath my weight and I'm doing my damnedest to smash her head into paste with my fists. Her skull or whatever equivalent dents in a little more with each enraged strike, each hate-fueled blow until, finally, it caves from my assault. Her struggles cease but my grief and anger refuse to fade. I keep punching, reduced to little more than a savage.

Damir got hurt trying to protect me. Damir could die.

Voices, coming closer. My attack grinds to a halt. I turn to see the remaining militia and a handful of civilians approaching. The sight of the violence's aftermath, or maybe just me, visibly shocks the group and brings them to a stop several meters away. Damir's passed out from shock or blood loss or both; the stump of his arm is gushing. Lev's crouched over him, screaming and pleading him to wake up, please wake up, please don't die on me.

Somewhere in the distance a helicopter's rotors can be heard.

"Ha… ahahaha…"

Weak giggling snaps my attention back to Executioner. Her lips – the only recognizable part of her head left – split into a malicious grin.

"Congratulations… you beat me. I guess… I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?" Despite her eyeballs making up some of the synthetic goop coating my hands, I have the sensation she's looking straight at me. "Like I said… you being here was a coincidence. My _real _target… escaped to that Griffin base. Master… Master thought that attacking this village… would lure them out… Lure _her_ out..."

"What are you talking about? Lure _who _out?"

She barely has the power left to shrug. "I doubt you'd know her. Black hair, skull bandana… uses an M4A1 carbine… Ring any bells?"

Sangvis was after M4? Wait, is this related to the data she was carrying when I met her? No, that can't be. She delivered it to base over a week ago. So why keep targeting her? Revenge? Or something else entirely?

Executioner coughs wetly. "No answer… didn't think so. But now that I've pinpointed your location… I've already relayed my combat information over... to Agent." Her grin is full of shattered teeth. "Master is eager to learn about you… Alcatraz. We will not stop. We will not rest. We will hunt you to the ends of the earth…"

The helicopter's getting closer. A couple of civilians have huddled around Damir, doing their best to stabilize him. A militia member tries to escort Lev away but he's resisting.

"It's almost funny… You and I… are so similar." She sighs and relaxes, content in her final moments. "We're both machines… doomed to fight… to kill… until the end… of our… days…"

My reply comes out scratchy and painful. "I am _nothing _like you."

Executioner's already expired before I finish my sentence. I stagger to my feet, acutely aware of the fire in my lungs. Lev is back at his brother's side. Forget SF's plans, my buddy's fucking dying in front of me. Maybe I can help.

I take three steps forward-

_BANG!_

And bite back a yell when a 6.8mm hollow-point round digs into my already wounded chest.

"STAY AWAY FROM HIM, YOU FREAK!" Lev shrieks hysterically. One look at his wild eyes immediately makes it clear he's finally broken from the stress. The still-smoking barrel of his rifle is kept pointed toward me.

Several people start berating him, asking what the fuck he's thinking. Meanwhile, I'm stunned into silence. Lev just shot me… I know he didn't trust me, but I never imagined he'd…

"FREAK! MONSTER! GET OUT! LEAVE THIS PLACE AND NEVER COME BACK!" He takes a deep breath and bellows, "_I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN_!"

Holy _fuck _this guy's unstable. I've got half a mind to bite back, let him know I wasn't responsible for today's shitshow, but he's got a loaded gun and he's looking for an excuse to use it. As for his claim that I'm a monster… well… it's something I've long gotten used to. Let's leave it at that.

The chopper's landed somewhere down the road. Almost a dozen T-Dolls haul ass out the side door, and I pick out a few familiar faces among them: FAL and Five-seveN. Springfield and Mk23, the latter crying out in shock when she sees her crush aiming his Grendel at some weird-ass creature.

M4. Until an hour ago she was the only one in on my secret. She knew how much I desired to have it remain that way. Muted horror flickers over her face as she takes in the sight of my shredded abdomen, along with the Paskovs' conditions.

"Alcatraz…?"

Too much, it's all too damn much for me. Damir's fading faster each moment. Lev is a crazed mess. I'm injured, distressed, and surrounded by people and Dolls who all thought they knew the real me until today. Lev is right – I need to leave, _now_.

I cloak and hobble out of Makeyeva as fast as my wounded body allows. No one pursues. The suit drops a nav marker pointing eastward, and with no other options I follow it to the given destination: the city of Berdychiv.

* * *

**Dark chapter is dark.**

**An explanation for why this needed to happen: Alcatraz currently has no interest in joining G&K. Obviously he's not on bad terms with them; however, besides sharing a mutual enemy in SF (and he didn't understand the full scope of their threat until now), he doesn't see much reason to work for a PMC, especially when you add in his hatred of CELL.** **This chapter will help nudge him toward the path we all want.**

**As for why he can feel pain, I like to imagine the N2 evolved that function back. Pain is important. It's the body's way of saying, "Hey, that cut you just got? That's not good for you. Try not to let it happen again." That said, he'll only really start feeling it if he quickly racks up a lot of damage. **

**Don't worry, though. Things will soon get better for our favorite Nanosuited Marine… at least until I find a way to shove him into the wedding gacha event.** **That's the only instance I can think of where he'd gladly let Prophet substitute.**

**Make sure to drop a review, and I'll see you all next time. Peace out.**


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